


Whatever Remains

by boomsherlocka



Series: Whatever Remains [1]
Category: Outlander, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Graphic descriptions of violence, I'm Sorry, Ignoring Series 3 Altogether, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Multi, Nope None of that Mary business, Not as cracky as it started out being, Outlander crossover, Threesome, Well she is mentioned but she is long gone, no baby watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 71,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6752950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomsherlocka/pseuds/boomsherlocka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had touched a stone. </p><p>One moment he was there, and the next...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So a number of my close friends are obsessed with Outlander. I knew I wouldn't like it, so I started just pointing out fanfic tropes and then I wandered into this line of thought. 
> 
> Sherlock crossover. And then I started writing it and it works. And then I started enjoying Outlander more. Slightly. 
> 
> I am by no means an expert on Outlander, nor do I want to be. I just wanted to have a bit of fun with this trope and laugh at the idea of Sherlock being transported into the past and falling in love with Ye Olde John in a kilt okay? Bear with me.

When you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

So, here is what remained:

Sherlock Holmes had touched a stone. The stone did not look any different than the other standing stones that formed the circle. It looked perfectly ordinary. He had been waiting on John to answer his text, already bored of the rolling Scottish provincialism, and he had leaned back against the cold, damp stone.

One moment he was there, and the next…

The next found him sprawled on his back in the middle of the standing stones, dazed and staring into a clear blue sky.

He took a moment to orient himself, sitting up and pulling out his mobile. No signal. He sighed and tucked the phone into his pocket as he trotted down the hill. John had to be nearby, and clearly he required some medical attention. He had to have been struck by lightning, or suffered some sort of fit.

He heard the sound of clattering hooves approaching but thought nothing of it. The Scots seemed to live in a ridiculous sort of time warp, of course they would have preferred riding horses to a more efficient mode of transportation.

When he spotted the bright red coats and heard the gunfire, his first thought was that he had awoken inside of one of his dear brother’s wet dreams.

His second thought is that he ought to take cover, lest he take a bullet. Because they were firing real bullets, despite his initial impression of what was happening.

He was pursued for a time, that was until he reached a babbling stream that he waded across as quietly as he could manage. When he stood at the bank opposite, shaking water from his coat and lamenting the destruction of his shoes, he heard the tell-tale sound of the hammer being pulled back on a gun.

“Who are you?” A lilting voice asked, and a too familiar shiver coursed down Sherlock’s spine.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding strange to his ears. He looked up and there was that face, those dark soulless eyes staring right back at him. It was him, impossibly.

“Moriarty,” the man repeated, his large, antiquated pistol levelled at Sherlock’s head. “Where have you heard that name?"

Except…  eliminate the impossible. Moriarty was dead. Sherlock had seen it with his own eyes. And this man-- with his long dark hair tied at the base of his neck by a length of cord-- had a large, very old scar carving a hollow in the side of his face. The scar had faded all the way to a silvery white, something that could not have occurred in such a short period of time. The man in front of him was not James Moriarty, he was… who was he?

Sherlock’s mind palace was shaken, as if by an earthquake, and he staggered back a few steps. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears but no words were coming. No lies came easily.

“If you do not wish to part with the inside of your skull you’ll answer me,” Not-Moriarty snapped, his finger coming to settle on the trigger of his pistol.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and three separate things happened at the same time.

One: There was a loud commotion behind him as a group of large, angry looking men barrelled over the hill on horseback, brandishing sticks and swords.

Two: One of those men drew back his arm and swung at Not-Moriarty’s head, shaking the pistol free from his hand and knocking him unconscious.

Three: Sherlock was surrounded by men who were all wearing a rather appalling tartan and looking like they wanted nothing more than to kill him and have it over with.

Sherlock closed his mouth.

 

 

Sherlock could think of little that was pleasant about Scotland. Now that he found himself in a Scotland of the past  listening to Gaelic and wishing that he wasn’t the only one who had taken a dip in the stream, he longed for England even more. His England, the one with Baker Street and Mrs Hudson and suicides that were really murders. Also John. 

He cannot clearly imagine the string of expletives that John would be spewing if their places were changed.

He doesn’t ask how he got here, because between the four men he doubted there was enough brain function to tie a shoe. Instead he answered their question, once he waded through their sickening brogue. 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he drawled, trying his best not to shiver. His best, it seemed, was not good enough.

“He’s English,” one of the men growled, and another added “Spy,” for good measure.

“Wrong,” Sherlock replied before he could stop himself. “I’m not spying, I’d rather be anywhere else. I was travelling, I was ambushed, and they stole my horse.”

There was grumbling amongst the men in Gaelic again. Part of him wanted to know what they were saying, but the rest of Sherlock was glad that he did not have to hold the shame of knowing Gaelic. French was bad enough.

“Right, you’re coming with us back to our camp,” the oldest of the men said.

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same,” Sherlock said. “I really must be on my way.”

“We’re not letting you report back to your ken, so you best come peacefully,” the leader replied. “There’s a bit of a ride still.”

Sherlock hated horses. He did not trust them, and they knew it. But when one of the grizzled highlanders held out his hand to help Sherlock onto the back of his horse, he didn’t argue. There was no point.

 

Instead, he climbed aboard.


	2. Chapter 2

 

John had been reading the Wikipedia article over Craigh na Dun to Sherlock on the train. He read the entire bloody article. He even added his own knowledge of military history and narrated the already excruciating train journey. Sherlock had dozed against the window, his cup of weak tea in his hand as he listened to the familiar drone of John’s voice.

The lecture didn’t stop when they arrived, it only intensified. John had family from this area, he said. John had visited as a child. That hill over there is where the British military had set up their base so that they could keep an eye on the movements of the clansman. John wanted to take a picture with Sherlock with the mountain in the background for his blog. John wanted him to smile. John smiled at him, so he listened and he did as John asked.

 

When he shared the information about the British stronghold to his kidnappers, they were suspicious. When they were attacked by the British, they became less so. When no one was seriously injured and they managed to make it back to their base in one piece, they seemed to begrudgingly accept that he might not be a spy at all, just a strange Englishman wearing trousers, of all things. Or perhaps a warlock. 

When they arrived a kind older woman who reminded him of Mrs Hudson in a way that made his chest hurt whisked him into the kitchens where there was a roaring fire and fresh, dry clothes for him to change into. Clothes which turned out to be a well-worn linen tunic and a kilt made of the same tartan that everyone was wearing. Reminded of the school uniforms he was forced to wear at school, Sherlock begrudgingly dressed, accepting the additional swath of warm wool that the woman draped over his shoulders.

By the time he rejoined the fever dream the men were helping one of their own to a bench by the fire in the living area of the small cottage. “I’ll be fine,” the man was insisting through gritted teeth, but the sharp jut of his dislocated shoulder suggested otherwise. One of the men brought him a bottle of scotch that he had no problem downing a few drags of before he handed it back. “Just force it back in, it fecking hurts.”

One of the men, who had clearly been drinking for hours and saw no problem with the plan, went to push at the jutting joint but Sherlock surged forward, shoving him aside.

“Are you purposefully being an idiot or are you just naturally inclined?” he snapped, putting his body between the drunken amateur doctor and the injured Scot who was turning white and looking like he may faint. “You can’t just shove a dislocated shoulder back into place, you have to make sure it’s in the right position first, else you’re just going to make it worse. I’ve popped my own shoulders back into place enough to know that. Here,” Sherlock huffed, kneeling a bit as he took the injured man’s wrist in his hand, carefully manoeuvring the bones into the correct position.

The man made no noise at all until Sherlock pressed upwards and the bones in his shoulder clicked back into place. He drew in a sharp breath, squeezed his eyes closed, and held out his hand for the bottle of whisky again.

With an eye roll Sherlock took the scarf from around his neck and fashioned a makeshift sling for the man, whose face had softened a bit. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he said softly, rolling his neck and wiggling his fingers.

“It will,” Sherlock said. “Don’t move it, or you’ll make it worse.”

“Are those doctor’s orders?” the man asked, and for some reason that was the first time Sherlock looked at the man properly, really looked.

He was the spit of John, just for a moment. A funhouse mirror image that changed the longer he stared into its surface. He was bulkier, his shoulders held a more downward slope. His face was slightly less worn, eyes slightly more blue, hair loose and wild with waves, but this man… the relation was undeniable.  When the man’s face wrinkled a bit with a frown Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m not a doctor, I simply… I am a doctor’s assistant. And a quick study.”

“And apparently prone to injury,” the man said with a smile before taking another pull of whisky from the bottle.

Sherlock’s stomach rolled and he longed for home for a brief moment, but that was quickly tempered. “Hamish, we need to speak with yeh,” the old man who had taken Sherlock into custody said, waving him over.

The man, Hamish, adjusted the makeshift sling Sherlock had made and stood, giving Sherlock a nod of thanks before walking away to join the congregation of men in the corner.

Sherlock knew what they were talking about, but he could not find it in himself to be overly concerned. It is difficult to be intimidated by a group of men wearing matching skirts, even  if those men held his life in their hands.

Instead of standing alone by the fire, he decided to retreat to the kitchen to check on the fate of his clothing. He had little hope of salvage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the crack just keeps on coming. Expect more soon.


	3. Chapter 3

The ride back to the castle found Sherlock sitting in front of Hamish on the man’s horse after a tense but nearly silent argument concerning his shoulder. “You fell off of your horse before, if you’d forgotten. I think I can manage to stay in saddle and make sure you don’t injure yourself further.”

Hamish’s eyebrows lifted, and Sherlock expected an outburst.  An argument. But instead he nodded. “As you wish, your highness.”

Sherlock did not think it was possible for him to roll his eyes any harder.

For the first time, Sherlock considered how blindingly stupid it was to ride a horse in a kilt. It was uncomfortable and it chafed, and his distrust of the horse was soon replaced by an unusual focus on his genitals.

“How do you do this every day?” Sherlock called over his shoulder to Hamish, shifting a bit in the saddle again. “What, have you developed some sort of riding callus?”

Hamish’s laugh was low and dark behind him. “Would you prefer riding like a woman, then? To protect your precious _cliospairneach_?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and shifted in the saddle again. “I would prefer to be wearing trousers. And pants. And to go home.”

Hamish made a noise of affirmation behind him. For a brief moment he felt the other man’s free hand settle on his hip, but then it fell away, back to gripping the saddle. “Your riding skills are good,” he said after a long silence. 

Sherlock tightened his grip on the reins. “I had lessons. It was never something I found interesting, but my brother excelled at dressage until he got too heavy for the horses to bear. They’d wheeze after he was finished with them.”

“What sort of person has to have lessons to know how to ride?” Hamish asked with an astounded chuckle. “Do you not need them, in…”

“London,” Sherlock supplied. “And we’ve got carriages, no need to ride horses like a savage.”

“Savage.”

Sherlock did not regret using that word, not exactly. If it helped keep Hamish quiet perhaps it was worth it, though he would have preferred a silence that wasn’t so deafening.

“Your _beul_ may very well be the death of you, you know that?” Hamish finally said, his tone even. “Or the death of me, not quite sure which is more welcome.”

“My _beul_?” Sherlock repeated.

“Mouth.”

Sherlock shook his head and they rode on. Hamish’s hand settled on his waist again and this time, it didn’t move.

That was, until they were ambushed by the Redcoats again and Sherlock narrowly avoided getting shot as he urged the horse to ride faster. By some stroke of fortune it obeyed, and they thundered back to the castle at full speed.

 

When they arrived back at Castle Leoch, the first thing they did was send the horses to the stables with Hamish, who was apparently in charge of their care. The horses were foaming at the mouths, drenched in sweat, and wild eyed. Sherlock, who would much rather spend his time with the only marginally attractive Scotsman of the lot even if it meant having to spend time with horses, started to follow.

He was tempted away from that thought with the mention of a bath. He decided to postpone his bath in favor of waiting for the stream to clear: he was not interested in standing in a stream with a group of grimy men talking in another language to each other about him. Instead, he decided it was time to feed the transport.

He retreated again to the kitchen, tried his best to ignore the flurry of questions presented to him by the portly woman who gathered together a meal for him, and glared daggers at the wall as he ate cured cheese and bread that was dense as a stone.

Sherlock was used to a wide variety of stench. Rotting flesh, the Thames in summer, the stench of humanity pressed in around him. Very few of those things seemed to affect him anymore, but there was something about the cloying sweet of animal dung and the tang of fermenting mud that made his stomach turn. There was no escaping the smell—his clothing smelled like an overworked horse and everything around him stank of organic rot. He could find nothing appealing about this place.

He had never understood the urge people had to romanticize the past, to long for a simpler time. There was nothing appealing about simple to Sherlock. Simple meant stupid, or not worth his time and energy. There was nothing appealing or romantic about lacking modern conveniences, medicine or sanitation. There was no better time to exist than the time he had been stolen from, and the overpriced brick of a useless smart phone that lay tucked in the pocket of his still-damp woolen coat was the only symbol he needed of that. He wanted desperately to return to a time of science and reason, and leave behind this time of… horses and rampant sickness and magic stones that looked just like any other stone but weren’t.

Men were starting to filter back in from their baths, somehow managing to look like they hadn’t bathed at all. Sherlock returned his plate to the woman, thanked her, and gathered up the clothes he had arrived in. They were dry and although his shoes were less shiny and would probably squeak a bit more when he walked, it beat being uncomfortable in a kilt.

He set off in the direction that he saw men returning from and found the stream with ease, carefully laying out his clothes before beginning to undress. The skin between his thighs was enflamed and he threw the sorry excuse for clothing as far from himself as possible before wading into the cool water.

The water felt like heaven against his skin and he closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling and trying not to focus on how very much he hated every second of his life. He could survive this. He needed to get back to the stones, uncover what caused the whole impossible situation, and get back home. And, if time allowed, forbid John to ever suggest taking a case in Scotland again. And perhaps replace the other man’s trousers with kilts as punishment.

He grinned to himself at the thought, but the grin disappeared when he was splashed in the face. Water went up his nose and in his mouth and he spluttered, opening his eyes to find none other than the horse wrangler and only attractive Scotsman in all of history, Hamish. He had somehow managed to wade into the water without Sherlock having heard him, close enough to splash him with minimal effort.

“Where on earth were you just then? You’ll have your throat slit in no time if you stay locked away in your own head,” Hamish said as he gingerly cleaned a fresh wound that left his skin caked in blood old and new alike.

“Is that wound from your fall?” Sherlock asked, inching forward.

“Nah, it’s from the ride this morning,” Hamish replied, wincing a bit as he scrubbed away the blood.

“Were you _shot_?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp and accusatory. “Why on earth didn’t you say anything? Are you purposefully trying to die?”

“It’s fine, went straight through,” he said with a shrug of his _bad shoulder_. He had the decency to wince, at the very least.

“Right, get out of the water,” Sherlock snapped as he waded out. “We’re going back and I’m going to tend to it properly. How you’ve survived this long I will never know.”

“Luck had the most to do with it,” Hamish replied, following him out of the water.

“Put your damn sling back on before you throw your shoulder out again,” Sherlock instructed as he dressed, feeling more and more like himself with every layer he added. “And we’ll have this stitched before you bleed to death.”

Hamish pulled his own clothes back on, hesitating only briefly before placing his arm back into the sling.

Like most of their journeys thus far, this short trek was also taken in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah there are going to be more than five chapters of this. Sorry not sorry. 
> 
> Comments feed the beast. Also, they are both idiots.


	4. Chapter 4

The damage to Sherlock’s mind palace took all night to repair. He was made to sleep on an animal skin in the kitchen, but at the very least he was warm. He was under constant supervision, his entire body ached, and frankly he was tired of the whole Scotland business. The case that had brought them there in the first place wasn’t even close to a ten.

But John had asked. John had wanted a holiday. And as always, Sherlock found it difficult to deny John anything. Even something as horrible as the Scottish highlands.

He wondered, briefly, if John was looking for him. Without the world’s greatest detective to help on the case, would John be able to discover that Sherlock had been whisked away buy something as unbelievable as magic? Magic, something that Sherlock himself was still having a difficult time believing existed, even when the evidence surrounded him on all sides?

He wished desperately that John was here, to be his voice of reason. His panic was simmering below the surface and he needed to get back. More than anything he needed to make it back to John. John had made him promise that he wouldn’t leave again after Reichenbach, and he needed to make sure he kept that promise.

 

Sherlock was the first of the lot to rise, and he stepped outside of the cottage wrapped in a tartan blanket. The sun was just rising over the horizon and a heavy fog clouded the view, but that made it no more or less enchanting. The view was pastoral and plain. If one were easily excited by the sight of sheep, they might find some pleasure in it, but Sherlock had quite enough of enchanting for a lifetime.

The door to the cottage creaked open and Sherlock didn’t turn around, already knowing that his personal guard was probably making sure he wasn’t sending smoke signals to the British.

“I’d have thought you had quite enough adventure the past few days,” Hamish’s tone was amused, again, and Sherlock did not understand what was so funny. “Do you not need more rest?”

“You’re the one who fell off their horse and nearly tore off their arm and then proceeded to be shot, shouldn’t you still be sleeping?” Sherlock countered, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

“I’ve dealt with worse,” Hamish said with a shrug of his good shoulder.

Sherlock held his breath, waiting for more. It never came. “I need to get back on my journey. Could you take me back to Craigh na Dun?”

Hamish squinted into the rising sun and shook his head. “I can’t do that. You understand that we cannot just take your word that you’re not working for your crown. We can’t just let you go about your business. We don’t know what your business is.”

“It isn’t to get you lot killed, if that’s what you think,” Sherlock scoffed. “I can assure you that you lot can manage that well enough on your own.”

Hamish let out a soft laugh as he lowered his head. “As hard as we try to bleed ourselves dry, you try harder to stop it from happening.”

 “I’m not that good,” Sherlock said. “I just picked up things from my friend, John. He’s a doctor. A wartime doctor. He’d fit right in with you lot.”

“Aye, he may appreciate us more than you,” Hamish said as he leaned back against the cottage wall. “Mostly I think your view of us is slightly above your view of a sheep.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Only highlanders and sheep would ever want to live here,” Sherlock agreed with a nod.

“And we’d not be happy anywhere else, I’d wager,” Hamish replied. “When the rest of the world has given up its beauty for us to have.”

“You can’t possibly believe this is the most beautiful place in the world, it’s a cold provincial nightmare.”

Hamish shook his head. “Bite your tongue. These lands are filled with stories that will outlive us all and people who will make sure of it. You can feel the weight of it, all around you. There’s a certain magic here.” 

“Magic doesn’t exist,” Sherlock said, tucking his hands in his pockets, his fingers brushing against his telephone, the battery of which had long been dead. “Your gods are imaginary and your customs hold no basis in anything other than superstition and nonsensical tradition. There is no magic here, just a stunning lack of understanding as to how the world works.”

Silence fell. Hamish’s breathing was heavy for a moment before he pushed off of the wall of the cottage, marine blue eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, _Sassenach_. You don’t have any idea. You think you have this grand understanding of the world, the way things are, but you don’t. You don’t know anything.”

Sherlock’s jaw tensed. He took a steadying breath, but it did nothing in the way of steadying.  “I don’t know anything? I know you aren’t truly a member of this clan, you’ve a bit of tartan tucked away in your pack that’s different from the one you wear. I know your back is mangled with scars from a whip, multiple whippings. Which suggests to me that you are a man who has had many run ins with the law of the British Army. You were either a prisoner or a captive, my vote is for the former. Why else would you be hiding here? How much money is on your head, Hamish? How much is your capture worth?”

The other man’s face was hot with anger, colour high on his cheeks. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Sherlock licked his lips, not wanting to look away. “No,” he finally said, “I wouldn’t.”

Hamish’s jaw was still tightly clenched as he stepped back a bit. “I will see what I can do, but I make no promises. Satisfied?”

Sherlock was. He needed to find a way home.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock had not answered any of John’s text messages or phone calls he knew something was wrong. They had planned to meet back at their room before dinner to go over what they had discovered, but Sherlock had not come back for that either. 

John scrolled through the numbers on his phone, texting both Greg and Mycroft to ask if they had heard from Sherlock. Greg didn’t respond very quickly, he usually kept his phone on silent while at work, but Mycroft responded instantly that he hadn’t, and the GPS function was not yielding any results. John’s phone pinged a location, but Sherlock’s… Sherlock’s was nowhere to be found.

That could mean any number of things. Perhaps Sherlock had managed to disable the function to spite Mycroft. Perhaps he was in an area where he didn’t have service. Perhaps he had been injured. There were any number of scenarios that could have played out, but John was officially concerned after the passing of 24 hours.

He went out as soon as the sun rose, toting with him a bag of supplies and a large bottle of water. He set off in the direction that Sherlock had decided to go, exploring every deviation from the beaten path thoroughly along the way. By the time he reached the path’s end he had been on the task for a few hours, had shed his jacket and poked it into his pack and had the standing stones in his sight. This is what the path led to, the mystical standing stones.

John had heard the stories from his gran and grandad growing up, about the sort of things the earth can get up to in these sorts of places, and John had to admit there was a certain amount of eerie stillness and silence around the stones. After a moment’s consideration he shook himself out of the reverie and continued his search for any clues he could find that would possibly explain Sherlock’s disappearance.

There was nothing. No abandoned scarf, no lock of hair, no note saying that Sherlock had decided to go on walkabout, nothing.

He called the local police first on the walk back, then Mycroft, then Greg. If Greg would come down to  Baskerville to make sure they didn’t get into any trouble, surely he would come down to help John with this.

Once he made it back to the bed and breakfast he contacted the young woman who had hired them to solve the case of the slow stripping of all of the assets in her family’s estate and let her know that there had been complications and it would take longer than expected. She was understanding but upset. There was nothing to be done, and John didn’t have the time or energy to try to smooth things over with her, as at that moment the local police arrived and he had to beg off.

They took his statement, set off on their own investigation, and John fielded another call from Mycroft’s assistant. He was in a state of shock, not sure what else he could do besides perhaps make posters to hang about town.

So instead of sitting around in his room or wandering around aimlessly calling for Sherlock outside, he went to a photocopy centre and knocked up a poster. It took a while to find a photograph on his phone that offered a fairly clear view of Sherlock’s face but he came up with one of him and Mrs Hudson from a New Year's party years ago. Sherlock’s smile isn’t completely false and he’s holding his violin as Mrs Hudson looks up at him adoringly, like he hung the moon.

John smiled a bit as he connected his phone to the computer and tried to ignore the hot surge of familiar sadness shoot through his chest.

He clicked through the fonts, finally settling on one before sending the poster to print.

He spent the afternoon hanging them up around the small village, in shop windows and on light posts, thankful for something to do besides try and get on with his life without Sherlock.

He would not live in a world without Sherlock Holmes in it, not again. It was not something he was prepared to return to.

Mycroft’s men arrived, and Greg came to take John home, back to Baker Street.

The flat was cold and empty and John hated it. Hated the silence, the weight of all the things that had been left unsaid between he and Sherlock. Everything that crossed his mind and everything he thought he saw on Sherlock’s face.

The things that he was too frightened to say.

“Don’t be dead,” John whispered into the silence. “For me.”

 

In another time, in another place, Sherlock Holmes startled awake. “John?” he called into the darkness, but then he remembered. He remembered everything, and his heart clenched. He sighed, settling back down on his animal skin and tried his best to go back to sleep.

But sleep never came.


	6. Chapter 6

Everyone was rather put out that Sherlock seemed keen on wasting a perfectly good bottle of whisky on disinfecting Hamish’s gunshot wound. The mention of germs and disinfecting only drew blank stares and with a muttered curse he plucked the bottle from a man’s hand and poured it over the wound, which earned a loud yell of pain from the Scotsman.

The stitching drew less of a reaction, but the wound came together nicely: Sherlock’s years of mending his own wounds came in handy, it seemed. Added with what he had learned from watching John’s steady hands, he was more than proficient.

He dressed the wound with shreds of a linen apron and fitted Hamish’s arm back into his scarf-cum-sling with strict orders not to overdue himself and to let Sherlock know if the wound began to bleed through the bandages.

“As you say,” he agreed, for the first time seeming a bit ashamed by his state.

“You’re of no use to anyone with a shoulder wound that won’t heal,” Sherlock said before he had processed what he was saying.

Shoulder wound.

Hamish, of course, did not recognize the significance of the statement. He only offered Sherlock a slight grin before reaching for the dregs of the whisky. Sherlock watched him drink, his throat working and hair glowing in the firelight. His shirt was all but ruined by blood and Sherlock cleared his throat. “I could find you a fresh tunic, if you like. That one’s beyond saving.”

“I can’t use my arm to get it off,” Hamish replied, not looking at Sherlock as he tried his best not to smile. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Yes, well, if you asked nicely I might help,” Sherlock replied, taking the bottle away from him.  “Maybe lift your other arm? Can’t say I have much experience undressing someone else.”

“I can’t imagine it being much different,” Hamish said, tugging at the loose tunic, trying to get it over his head.

“Stop it,” Sherlock snapped, taking over and easing the blood stained fabric over his head and tossing it aside. “We might be able to salvage bits of this for bandages. You lot will probably need them. I seem to recall that none of this will go well for you.”

Hamish hummed, standing to go fetch a clean shirt. When his back was illuminated by the firelight Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. He had known the scars were there, seen glimpses of them, but he had not seen them in their entirety. Hamish’s broad shoulders were striped with dark and thick scars that travelled all the way down his back, most likely dipping below the waistband of his kilt. They were painful to look at, but old and beginning to fade. “You know that you sound mad, don’t you?” Hamish said, his voice cutting through Sherlock’s silent study of his striped skin.

“Your scars…what did you do to deserve them?” Sherlock asked, and Hamish brought the tunic back over to Sherlock, dropping it into his lap.

“You are the one who can see the past and the future. You tell me,” he said, sitting back down and taking off the sling.

Sherlock shook his head as he carefully slipped his injured arm through the sleeve first, and with minimal pain got the Hamish redressed. It wasn’t until his sling was back in place that Sherlock said “I don’t see into the past, or the future. I just observe what is in front of me, right now. I am very good at interpreting the evidence presented to me.”

“Do you really want to know, or are you simply pretending to be interested?” When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, Hamish added “I am good at seeing what’s in front of me too.”

“There is never anything that I cannot learn from people,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “The more I understand why people do what they do, the better I am at what I do.”

“Which is?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I won’t tell you anything until you answer my question first.  What did you do to deserve being whipped?”

Hamish reached for the bottle, finished off the rest of the whisky before looking at Sherlock, brows knitted together. “I volunteered to take the punishment in place of my sister. What they did to me…it was nothing compared to what they were going to do to her. I took one hundred lashes. But it wasn’t enough for the villain. I didn’t break. So I took one hundred more. I lost consciousness after a time, don’t remember him finishing off the punishment. When I awoke Blackjack Jim was gone. I was to be arrested, but I ran. And they’ve been looking for me ever since. The MacKenzie's were kind enough to take me in, protect me the best they could. I do not know if I even spared my sister his advances, but I’d like to think…” he sighed, shook his head. “I prefer not to think about it.”

Sherlock nodded. “You did what you thought was right, and what was fair.”

Hamish made a soft noise of neither agreement nor denial and looked over at Sherlock again. “So what is it that you do? You aren’t a doctor’s assistant?”

“I am a detective,” He replied. “I solve crime, make wrong things right.”

Hamish hummed, bumping his knee against Sherlock’s as he shifted. “There’s plenty of that to do around here, believe you me.”

Sherlock nodded. “The first think I’ll make sure of is that you don’t get infection, how’s that?”

Hamish laughed slightly, standing. “Right. Well, I think it’s time for a bit of dinner. You prefer to take your meals in the kitchen.”

“I prefer to not have a group of men staring at me like I’m going to kill them at any moment,” Sherlock muttered. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

Hamish shook his head slightly. “You aren’t safe on your own. There are a number of men who would do less than honourable things, and there would be few who would stop them.”

Sherlock took a slow breath, stalling in the entrance to the kitchens. “But I’ll be safe, if I stay with you?”

Hamish nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Then perhaps it would be alright, if we ate in the hall with everyone,” Sherlock said with a decisive nod.

“As you wish,” Hamish said with a slight bow.

Together they went into the hall, where everyone was already well into the drink and rowdy with it. Everyone fell silent as they entered, staring at Sherlock, whispering and frowning and clearly disapproving of his presence.

Sherlock sank down at the table, and Hamish joined him. Eventually the chatter started up again, and they went back to ignoring his presence.

Except for Hamish, who he was sure felt obligated to protect him as repayment for his medical assistance.

Even still, it was nice to have someone who seemed to be on his side.

 


	7. Chapter 7

After the first two days of being with the clan, Sherlock had come to the inevitable conclusion that he would not be able to shake his constant guard without speaking to the leader. He did not expect to be able to reason with the Laird, as Sherlock had not yet met him and if the other men were any judge, there was no reason to be had in all of Scotland.

Even still, he decided to confront the man at breakfast the next morning. Ignoring Hamish’s protests, he set off towards the head of the table. A number of the men stood, reaching for the nearest item that could be used as a weapon, but it did not deter Sherlock.

“I’m not a spy for the British, if you hadn’t noticed,” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest as he levelled his gaze of the Laird. The man was small and sickly and was always flanked by his brother, whose dark and vicious stares would have killed Sherlock long ago if looks could kill. Even in the brief time that Sherlock had observed the leader and his brother, he had gathered enough information to secure his way out. “And I wish to leave this place and continue my journey.”

Hamish had followed Sherlock but had stayed a few steps behind him, closer to trying to prevent Sherlock than support him. He started to make a noise of protest, but Sherlock pressed on.

“I can cure your illness. Easily,” he added, motioning to the Laird. “It’s a simple enough fix.”

The laird’s brother-- whose name was something frankly ridiculous-sounding so Sherlock refused to use it-- stood. He was much larger than his brother, but held the scrappy nature of someone who has had to fight for his position every step of the way. “The Laird’s illness cannot be cured, he was born with the affliction. You lie,” he bellowed as his hand settled on the hilt of his sword.  

“I don’t lie,” Sherlock snapped. “That would be you. You’ve been poisoning him since childhood, haven’t you?” He turned back to the Laird. “Your cup has been laced with lead every meal since before you went through puberty. That lead is slowly building up inside of your body, and one day it will kill you. Your brother has been keeping you ill on purpose so that he can be in control of the clan. He is killing you a little more each day, and you are too dense to realize it.”

The table fell silent. The Laird’s brother had turned purple and he drew his sword, storming around the table towards Sherlock in a blinding rage. Sherlock held up his hands but he was soon pulled backwards behind Hamish, whose sword was already in his hand.

There was the sound of a glass goblet shattering as it hit the ground and an unholy commotion as men joined the fight that had been brewing since Sherlock had initially approached the Laird.

“ _Crìochnaich_!”

As soon as the fight had begun, it was over. Hamish was bleeding again, the Laird was on his feet after calling for the fight to cease, and Sherlock surged forward. “I am not lying about Dooble, I swear to you.”

“Dougle,” Hamish corrected, still breathing heavily as blood poured down from the superficial wound that marred his hairline.

Sherlock glared at him for a moment before turning back to the Laird, who was pale and looked close to fainting. “Take my brother away,” he finally instructed before turning back to Sherlock. “And you, you say that you can cure me. How?”

Sherlock floundered for a moment. On that front, he had been lying. He knew that there were crackpot theories of ways to bind the metal so it could pass through the body, but couldn’t think of any, except reducing exposure. “You should be feeling better within a few days of not having it. If not, I will have to consult with herbalists to formulate a stronger treatment.” Perhaps if he explored his mind palace further, he could uncover something.

The Laird nodded, looking relieved. “I need rest, but when I awake I wish to speak to you in my quarters, _Sassenach_.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

Most of the men had returned to their breakfasts, but Sherlock found that he was no longer hungry. He excused himself, and rolled his eyes when Hamish trotted after him. “I can take care of myself,” Sherlock snapped when they were clear of the dining hall.

Hamish’s laugh was bitter. “Dougle would have taken off your head without a second thought.”

Sherlock spun on his heel, and Hamish ran into him, not able to stop quickly enough. “He would have been more than welcome to try. Have you noticed which of us is injured, again? You’ve blood all over your face, and I’m sure you’ve torn stitches. You are a very lackluster hero, if I’m being honest.”

Hamish frowned slightly, bringing a hand up to touch his face. His fingers came away bloody, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You are uninjured because I removed you from the fight,” he finally said. “You have no weapons. You’re a slip of a thing, you didn’t stand a chance.”

Sherlock shoved Hamish away, still careful to avoid his bad shoulder. “You don’t know anything about what I am capable of. I don’t need any protection you have to offer.”  

Hamish’s jaw was tight as he let out a huff of air through his nose, like an angry bull. He finally nodded once. “As you wish. I hope your meeting with the Laird is fruitful.”

And with that, he left Sherlock alone.

Sherlock was truly alone for the first time since his arrival. He expected to be happy about this turn of events, but mostly he felt… lonely.


	8. Chapter 8

“There are a group of men travelling through clan territory that leaves on Thursday. They are collecting taxes. They’ll travel near Craigh na Dun, near enough to take you there. You’ll travel with the protection of clan MacKenzie.”

The Laird’s words were welcome ones and Sherlock bowed his head in gratitude. “Thank you. I appreciate the kindness you have extended to me.”

The Laird scoffed. “I have offered you no kindness, _Sassenach._ This, perhaps, makes up for that.”

Sherlock wanted to argue the point, but decided he was better off just letting it go. After he was dismissed from the Laird’s rooms he decided his best course of action was to explore the small village that surrounded Castle Leorn. The air was cold and crisp, and Sherlock’s lungs ached as he made his way towards the bustle of commerce.

He stepped into the town centre just as a young boy was being dragged to the square by his ear, a crowd following and shouting with every step.

“This young man has been charged with the theft of food. He was caught in the act, stealing bread only moments ago.” The man who was shouting was large with a craggy face and long stringy hair. He shook the boy as a rather dour-faced man pushed forward, clutching at his stomach. “What sentence do you issue, Judge?”

The crowd surged with shouts of ‘Cut off his hands!’ and ‘Kill him!”, both of which Sherlock thought were rather excessive. A young ginger woman poked her head out of the house that the Judge had come from and visibly rolled her eyes before locking eyes with Sherlock and offering him a little wink. Annoyed by the bloodthirsty rabble Sherlock went over to the woman’s home, even though he was sure she thought he was interested in sexual congress with her. To be fair, he couldn’t blame her, especially if she was married to the judge.

She was standing in the doorway to her cottage, leaning against it with her arms crossed. “So you’re who the castle has been hiding,” she said with a little smile. “I can understand why. An attractive Outlander could be the ruin of marriages everywhere.”

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked as she beckoned him inside, where she returned to her mortar and pestle. She ground away at whatever herb she was working with. “Are you a healer?”

The woman's smirk grew wider. “I help people who need it. I’m Gallis. I know the uses of every herb in our land, the ones that can ensure a woman does not fall pregnant, ones that will help her do so, and others to help a man's virility.”

“The judge is your husband,” Sherlock said softly, and Gallis neither confirmed nor denied the statement. “So do you lot often chop off the hands of starving children who steal bread? Because if so, you are more barbaric than I thought.”

Gallis laughed, adding more leaves to her mortar. “It’s uncommon, but it does happen. Are things really so different where you’re from?”

“Yes. They are.”

Gallis hummed, putting her pestle aside as she studied his face for a moment. “You aren’t going to lay with me, are you?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “No. Why would I do that?”

Gallis shrugged. “Most men wish to. But I suppose most men do not wish for the company of other men in their bed.”

She watched his face intently, keen on seeing a shift there that would give his reactions away. He offered her nothing except a clenched fist and a bob of his adam’s apple as he swallowed. He started to respond but the judge staggered back into the house, clutching his stomach and groaning.

“Gallis, quick, give me one of your tinctures, I can barely stand from the pain…oh…” he let out a rumbling fart, groaning all the way. Sherlock could not hide his disgust as he stepped farther away. “They need me to pass judgement and I can’t even think.”

“Here you are, love,” Gallis said, pouring him out a bit of bright green liquid, which he downed quickly. He let out another long string of flatulence before he collapsed into a chair.

“Thank you my dear… Oh my…” he sighed, using a handkerchief to dab away the sweat that had formed on his forehead and upper lip.

Gallis licked her lips as she looked over to Sherlock. “This man has questions about our ways, my husband. He thinks that it’s barbaric to send down the punishment of cutting off a thief’s hands.”

“Especially children,” Sherlock added, unable to help himself. “He has only done what he needed to do to take care of himself. He has no parents to care for him, and no way to make money. Instead of punishing him you should all be helping him.”

The judge looked up at him, confusion and anger written on his face. “Who are you?”

Gallis sighed. “He’s from the castle.”

The judge let out another round of gas and rubbed his swollen stomach. “Yes, fine. An hour at the stocks and a nail through the ear. Happy?”

“Very,” Gallis said with a nod before turning to Sherlock. “Very happy.”

Sherlock nodded, and watched the judge waddle back outside. He heard him issue the punishment and the crowd sounded disappointed. Clearly they wanted blood.

“A nail through the ear?” Sherlock asked, and Gallis nodded.

“Aye. They’ll nail him to the stock for an hour,” she said as she added a dash of oil to her mortar. “By his ear, ‘o course.”

Sherlock tried to hide his shock but he was drawn back outside by the child’s scream. The nail had already pierced skin, and it only took another hit with a hammer for the child to be secured to the wooden stock, eyes squeezed closed as the crowd shouted at him in Gaelic and in English in equal measure.

Sherlock was not sure how long he stood there, watching the boy weep in silence. He heard someone say his name, but it only registered when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He startled slightly and whipped around to see Hamish standing there, looking suitably cowed.

“I only meant to ask if you were alright,” he asked, his voice soft. There was a hint of an apology in his tone as he let his hand drop back down to rest on the hilt of his sword.

“So was this what it was like, then? Did a crowd surround you as you were beaten by the British? How can this sort of punishment be fine? You lot are no better than they are!” As Sherlock was saying the words he knew that his anger was misplaced, but Hamish did not seem to be taking the outburst personally.

Hamish sighed, looking over at the boy. “I am not the one who dealt this punishment, if you had noticed that.” He licked his lips and turned back toward Sherlock slightly. “I know that you know it was the judge. I saw you in the company of his wife.” Hamish’s ears pinked slightly as he cleared his throat. “Down that path lies danger, Sherlock. Heed with caution.”

Sherlock was shocked into silence for a moment. “I’ve no interest in that particular path,” he replied after a moment, and the tension in Hamish’s shoulders melted slightly.

“Good,” he said, then frowned, as if he had not meant to say anything at all. He bit his lip as he looked up at Sherlock. “I do hope you are not still angry with me for earlier? I meant no insult.”

“We need not revisit it,” Sherlock said with a shrug before gesturing toward the boy. “And I’m sorry for what I said about…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s been over an hour, why don’t they let him go?”

“He’s free to go whenever he likes,” Hamish said with a lift of his good shoulder. “He’s only to work up the courage to tear free.”

“Tear free?” Sherlock repeated, and Hamish nodded.

They stood in silence for a few more moments before Hamish looked around at the crowd, who were waiting for the boy to make a move. “Go over there,” he said softly, gesturing towards the opposite end of the square. “Make a scene.”

Sherlock wanted to ask why, but the look on Hamish’s face seemed determined. Sherlock slipped through the crowd, spied a cart filled with bolts of hand-weaved tartan, and knew what he needed to do.

He bumped into the cart and as it began to fall he positioned himself under it. He let out a scream, loud and over-dramatic, and people around him began to turn to investigate the commotion. Soon he was being helped to his feet by a man who was apologizing profusely while the rest of the group began working on setting the cart and fabrics to rights.

By the time Sherlock looked back over to the stocks the boy was gone and there stood Hamish, holding the nail in his hand and trying not to smile too widely. The boy had already disappeared into the crowd.

The walk back to the castle seemed much faster with Hamish at his side.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. The tax collecting group was leaving in two days and Sherlock was anxious to get on with it. He tossed and turned on his straw mattress before finally giving up, climbing out of bed. His regular clothes had been taken from him to have a wash before the journey, so he pulled on his coat over the long tunic he had begrudgingly decided to sleep in.

 He tried to find something to do in the castle, but all of the books were written in Scotch Gaelic and Sherlock would rather die than try to wade through that nonsense. It was worse than Welsh. He trailed his fingertips over the well warn shelves and stilled when his eyes landed on a prize: a violin. It was rough-hewn and Sherlock knew that the strings were true cat gut, but he couldn’t resist reaching for it.

It was a stunning piece of craftsmanship, and Sherlock picked out a tune with his fingers before going instead for the bow. He drew the bow across the strings and a haunting note sounded. Soon Sherlock was lost in his music, eyes closed as he played his favourite bit of Chopin, his fingers so trained to the placement that it didn’t spare a second thought.

He played through one piece, then the next, and soon his fingers began to ache in spite of himself. He had gone too long without playing, he was out of practice. He found himself playing one of John’s favourite tunes, a patriotic ditty that never failed to get John’s fingers tapping as he hummed along.  Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face as the tune drew to an end. Sherlock drew another long note from the violin, one that began to quiver in the air.

And just like that, Sherlock didn’t want to play anymore. He put the violin aside and dropped down in one of the chairs near the fireplace, pressing his fingertips against his lips and trying to ignore the rush of sadness that hit him all at once.

Sadness that he refused to consider. One step at a time. Get to the stones. Get back to John. Try to convince John that he had not relapsed into drug use and that he wasn’t crazy. That he had actually travelled back in time and met a hot Scot and somehow survived being raped or murdered.

Delete the hot Scot. He would say nothing to John about his doppleganger. Too awkward. Not worth trying to explain.

He shook his head, staring at the banked coals in the fireplace until his eyes burned.  He had to stop the line of thinking, the way of thinking that Gallis had rekindled at her mention of him sharing the bed of men.

_Do not think of Hamish in bed with you. Definitely do not think of John in bed with you. It can never happen. It will never happen. John has no problem expressing his interest in people. If he were interested, he would have said something ages ago. The hug at his return hadn’t meant anything. John’s near constant presence didn’t mean anything. John’s friendship would be enough, because it had to be enough. He would not risk losing the only friendship that seemed effortless but essential. He would not._

Sherlock caught himself grinding his teeth and he stood, pacing a few steps before he decided to head down to the kitchens to scrounge some food before the others began to rise.

 

He hadn’t eating much at all the previous night, as the cook had saw fit to serve haggis as the dinner. The other men had dug in without hesitation, talking and grousing and carrying on as usual. Only Sherlock hesitated. He chalked that up to the fact that he wasn’t an idiot and knew the ingredients with which haggis was made. He separated the stomach from the contents with a frown he was fairly certain he was not masking well.

“Not to your liking?” Hamish asked from across the table, his fork filled.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock replied loftily, moving instead to the bread. It would have to do until the Scots came up with food that wasn’t idiotic.

Hamish had stolen Sherlock’s share from his plate before he had even finished his bread, and Sherlock let him. If he wanted to  be violently ill from eating bloody _intestines_ then far be it for Sherlock to stop him.

His stomach had been growling not hours later, but he was too stubborn to beg food off of the cook.

The next morning, he was no longer too stubborn. He had a long journey ahead of him and knew he needed to keep up his strength, especially if he were going to have to ride on a bloody horse again.

At least this time he had his trousers.

After a breakfast of some sort of dried fruit, tasteless porridge and shortbread, Sherlock went to gather up his clothes from the washwoman and go back to get the rest of his things in order. He hoped that he would not be returning to this castle, so he best not leave anything behind. He dropped his cell phone into his coat pocket and started down the stairs, and he found Hamish and a young man he had not met before talking softly in a small room off the kitchen, the room where the kitchen maids and servants ate their meals.  

The young man was slightly taller than Hamish, but when Hamish lifted him up to sit on the table and crowded closer to him, eyes heavy on the other man’s lips as he leaned in for a kiss. The young man tangled his fingers in Hamish’s hair, wrapping his legs around his waist, crowding in as close as possible.

Sherlock must have made a sound, because the hand that Hamish was pushing up the young man’s kilt stilled and Hamish ended the kiss and pulled away to look in Sherlock’s direction.

He looked wrecked. The neck of his tunic was pulled to the side, lips swollen and wet from kissing, and his pupils were blown. Sherlock startled and retreated before things could get awkward. Clearly that was a private moment that was between Hamish and…whoever the hell that other bloke was.

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

Sherlock thought briefly about going to nick the violin, but decided he had pressed his luck enough while being here. Instead he went outside, deciding that he would rather look at the boring scenery outside than the boring scenery inside.

He tried to ignore the image of Hamish’s face as he peered over the other man’s shoulder at him, looking startled and aroused in equal measure.

_No. Delete._

It was more difficult than usual, but he locked the image away in a small room in his mind palace. He double locked it, triple locked it.

He was suddenly reminded of the aftermath of a case. John had solved it with Sherlock, accepted an invitation of a woman they had met along the way, and returned to the flat much quicker than the dinner and show would have taken. His hair was a mess, he had colour high on his cheeks, and his trousers held the tell-tale sign of being gathered around one’s ankles for a significant amount of time.

In short, John was well fucked.

Sherlock has stilled in his armchair when John dropped a hand on his shoulder briefly as he walked by. He didn’t move as he listened to John chatter on and on about the case and ideas for titles for the blog entry, and Sherlock pointedly did not look at him. Even though he wanted to.

There was no reason for that memory to come back to the surface.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and locked that one away as well.

He did not have time to deal with the emotions associated with either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we check back in with John and the gang. ;) Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

John knew that he was being ridiculous. He knew, logically, that not sleeping in his bed upstairs was not going to magically bring Sherlock back, but the idea of having to take the extra few steps to go up and down the staircase made him uneasy. He had dragged his duvet and pillows downstairs and made a nest on the sofa. He was far from comfortable sleeping there, but he felt slightly better.

It reminded him too much of before, of the two years that the flat had been his alone. He had not been able to disturb Sherlock's things then, but this time he was tempted to destroy everything. Cut the idiot's clothes into shreds and burn them in the fireplace. Break his microscope, ruin all of the experiments he had going in the kitchen. Never ever forgive him.

It was worse than when Mary had disappeared, leaving a note and an apology. That had been a sort of relief, in many ways.

He had been in constant contact with the local police in Scotland, but there had been no developments on their end. It had reached the point that they had very little patience speaking to him, and the feeling was quite mutual. Greg had tried to gently tell John that without any leads or new information, there wasn't much more that the police could do.

 

John's mind dwelled on the one event that seemed out of place in their trip – a strange interaction he had on the street. He had been walking back to their room with their takeaway dinner for the night, humming to himself as he squinted through the fog. He could see that the lights were on in the room, and Sherlock had the window thrown open. He had been pacing back and forth, his fingers steepled in front of his lips.

John caught himself grinning, that was until he saw a lone figure standing under the light of a lamppost. The man was slightly taller than John, and he was decked out in full regalia- kilt, linen shirt, strange Glengarry hat- the lot. He looked like he had stepped right off the set of _Braveheart_.

After a moment, John realized he was not the only one watching Sherlock through the illuminated window. So was this strange highlander. 

His grip tightened around the paper bag filled with fish and chips before he called “Excuse me, can I help you?” His voice was tight, clearly agitated.

The highlander was still for a beat longer before he turned, his face cast in shadow as he began moving toward John. The fog swirled around the figure as he moved, and John felt his heartbeat quicken. He dropped the bag and went for his gun, which wasn't there. He remembered too late that he had left it upstairs in the room. Even still John readied himself for an altercation, planting his feet firmly and balling his hands into fist. 

The man was close, and he rammed his shoulder into John's as he passed. John let out a surprised sound of pain as his frayed nerves caught fire, and he cradled his bad shoulder as he whipped around to tear into the man.

But he was gone. The fog was as thick as soup and a chill was deep in John's bones. He wasn't sure if the chill was from the weather or from the strange encounter.

He took a moment to compose himself, to let the adrenaline begin to flood out of his system, before he gathered the bag of food and rushed back to the inn.

“Thank goodness, I thought you'd managed to get lost,” Sherlock said as soon as John hit the door, snatching the bag of food from his hands to dig into the chips.

John crossed to the window for a moment before drawing the curtains closed. He let out a relieved sigh. “There was a strange bloke outside, watching you,” John began as he snatched the bag back from Sherlock long enough to fix himself a plate.

“The Scottish are a strange people,” Sherlock replied as he licked the salt from his fingertips. “Heed not their ways.”

John laugh was forced, and he had tuned out Sherlock's rant concerning the Scot's need to deep fry all of their food.

 

The next day, when Sherlock didn't come back, John had not remembered the interaction to inform the police initially. His interview held no mention of it. It was only when he had returned to London that his mind made the connection and he phoned the Scottish authorities, who made nothing of it.

John was not so sure. It was all they had to work from, and he was not willing to write it off.

Mycroft seemed to be in agreement with John, and not a day passed that he had not been in contact in some way. It was worse than the aftermath of Reichenbach, but John supposed that was because Mycroft had known where Sherlock was then. This time, Mycroft had no idea of his whereabouts.

John spent most of his time in the flat, door locked and lights off. He rarely answered his phone. He checked Sherlock's website, his email and his own blog obsessively, waiting for some clue-- a ransom note, a coded message, anything.

But nothing came. A week passed, and there was nothing.

Still, John waited.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock tried to avoid Hamish until he was set to leave on Thursday.  He was fairly successful, at least for a few days. Sherlock spent most of his time in the village, helping Gallis pick herbs and learning from her which were used for medicinal purposes and which were poisonous. He filed all of these things away in the garden of his mind palace. One never knew when such information could be useful.

The good news was that the Laird was regaining strength a little each day. His appetite had returned and he no longer looked grey and near fainting. It was as if a new life had been breathed into him, and he did not miss an opportunity to tell Sherlock how thankful he was for his interference. He had somehow managed to worm his way into his good graces, which was a relief in many ways. 

It was the morning that the caravan was set to leave that Sherlock saw Hamish again. He was loading up supplies and getting the horses ready the best his could with one injured arm, pointedly refusing to look at Sherlock as he stood back, waiting to load onto the wagon until instructed to. A small bespectacled man introduced himself to Sherlock and they shook hands, and only then did they load into the wagon.

“Dougle was meant to be manning this crusade,” Hamish said in a bitter drawl. “But seeing as he’s locked away as a prisoner, we must go on without him. We’ve a few riders accompanying us to defend against British attacks. I suspect this journey will not be an easy one.”

“It’s so nice to have that to look forward to,” Sherlock murmured as he settled into his seat, wrapping himself in a blanket to help ward off the morning’s chill.

Hamish coloured, but did not respond. Instead he climbed onto the head of the cart and snapped the reigns, urging the horses onward. They began at a steady trot, and Sherlock prepared himself for a long, endlessly dull journey.

 

He soon discovered that the journey was less about collecting taxes from subjects and more about bullying them into paying to be protected from the attacks of the British. Hamish would display his mangled back to gasping audiences and they would scurry to pay for their protection, which was something that the MacKenzie clan could not promise.

When he pointed this out to the bespectacled passenger, who turned out to be the clan’s treasurer, he only spluttered out a stuttered response and moved away from Sherlock as best he could. When he instead took the issue to Hamish himself, he was met with cold hostility.

“These people have nothing to protect themselves with. They’ve neither the man power nor the training to keep their ken from being slaughtered. And they will be slaughtered, by your lot.” Sherlock pressed his lips together, watching Hamish’s tanned skin turn scarlet with anger. “Mind your own, do you understand?”

Sherlock stormed off, deciding he would rather help on of the solo riders trailing them start a fire for the night’s camp than try to reason with Hamish. After the fire was started and the men broke out food as the treasurer tallied their keep for the day, Sherlock tossed stick after stick into the fire just to watch them burn. They were only a few day’s ride from Craigh na Dun and solving this mystery for good. There was nothing he would miss of this place, nothing that he wouldn’t be over the moon to leave behind.

Sherlock was lost in this bitter train of thought when someone settled down next to him by the fire, stretching their bare legs out closer to the fire with a sigh. Sherlock rolled his eyes when he heard a contented sigh escape Hamish’s lips. It sounded forced, like he was trying to prompt conversation but was unsure how to do so. “Have you come to apologize?” Sherlock asked lightly, tossing another stick into the fire.

“Only if you do so first,” Hamish said, removing the sling to roll the stiffness out of his shoulder. He then began carefully unwrapping the bandages, but stopped when the cloth had stuck to the scab that had formed. He tugged at it gently but it did not give.

Sherlock watched all of this out of the corner of his eye. “Has it been bothering you?” he asked, turning a bit towards Hamish but not quite looking at him.

“Aye,” Hamish admitted. “It pulls a bit, where the bandage has healed into the wound.”

Sherlock suppressed an annoyed sigh. “Why didn’t you say anything about it? I would have changed it before it got this bad.”

“You were quite set on pretending I didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have wanted to destroy your fantasy,” Hamish replied as he took a drink from the bladder at his hip.   
  
“Let me fetch some water, I’ll see if I can work it loose without causing any more damage,” Sherlock said, but Hamish handed over his bladder. Sherlock took it wordlessly, pouring some water over the wound, moistening the cloth and softening the scab. Most of the work was done in silence, save for the occasional hiss of pain from Hamish. After nearly an hour’s work it had been removed and discarded into the fire. The wound was weeping again and the sutures weren’t quite ready to be removed, but Sherlock suggested that Hamish spend the night without a bandage, just in case.  “If you’re worried about you shirt being ruined with blood in the night, I would suggest removing it. I’ll redress the wound in the morning and then you can redress.”

Hamish nodded silently, taking back his bladder and starting to stand.

“Who was the man you were with? At the castle?” Sherlock didn’t register he had even asked the question until a few moments after, when Hamish had froze. “I am sorry, you don’t have to answer that question.”

“You…” Hamish began, but decided to settle back down onto the ground beside him. “You haven’t spoken to anyone about that, have you?”

“Of course not.”

Hamish sighed in relief and nodded. “Good. He is… I have known him for quite a long time. I am… I have been promised to his sister, for marriage. We have an…an agreement. The three of us.”

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap. “Do you love him?”

Hamish’s brow wrinkled again as he considered the question, and Sherlock noticed that the fire light made the wiry blonde hairs on his legs glow like spun gold. “I do not know. His affection is…simple. He gives it freely. But no, I do not believe that I love him. Or his sister. Not like I…” he waved a hand dismissively. “There are things that I enjoy more. There are people whose company I prefer.”

Sherlock nodded, unsure what to say next and not sure what to do with the cold flood of relief he felt at Hamish’s words. “Perhaps we should turn in for the night,” he finally said. The other men had settled in under their blankets. One of them was snoring, but Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint which.

“Yes, perhaps,” Hamish replied as he climbed to his feet. “Do not wander too far in the morning, these men will not delay their collections in order to go searching for you.”

Sherlock carefully lay down an animal skin before settling down on it, his blanket pulled up to his shoulder. “I won’t.”

“And it wouldn’t go amiss for you to travel in the clan’s tartan. If the British see you and suspect you are our prisoner they will stop at nothing getting you back.”

Sherlock hummed. “Am I not your prisoner anymore? I’ve lost track.”

Hamish laughed as he balled up his tunic to use as a pillow. He carefully lay down, a broad hand settling over his naked chest. “You were never a prisoner. We do not treat prisoners kindly.”

“Who do you treat kindly? Not children, not women, definitely not the English or prisoners. So who is left?”

“Our kinsman,” Hamish said, closing his eyes. “And you, _Sassenach_.”

Sherlock was shocked into silence. By the time he had thought of something to say in response, Hamish was asleep, face half-illuminated in the dying fire.

When Sherlock woke the next morning, he was not sure what response he had  come up with in the end, but it didn’t matter.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: 
> 
> This chapter contains some rather graphic descriptions of violence.

When Sherlock awoke next morning it was to an aching bladder and a stiff neck. The other men were already awake and well into packing away their camp, and Sherlock carefully rolled up his pelt and packed it onto the wagon.

He then went in search of a place to relieve himself. He trudged into the trees for a bit until he had found suitable cover, and only then did he set about his business.

He had finished, zipped and started back through the trees when he heard raised voices.

Raised _British_ voices.

He sped up his pace and broke into the clearing to see their small party surrounded by redcoats.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sherlock couldn’t help but ask as he pushed forward. He heard mumbled words in Gaelic to his left and he turned slightly to see Hamish, shaking his head slightly. He was kneeling down beside the cart, hidden from view.

“What on earth are you travelling with these brutes?” One of the soldiers asked with a concerned frown. “You are an Englishman, are you not?”

The man who had a pointed face like a rat and dull brown hair urged his horse closer to Sherlock, who stood up straighter. “I was travelling to France and was held up at gunpoint. They took everything I had and these men offered to help me back in the right direction. Nothing untoward, I can assure you.”

The man’s lip curled slightly as he surveyed the Scotsman. “They are not holding you against your will? English captives do have their uses.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched and he glanced over to Hamish again, for a moment. “They offered to help me, and have treated me with kindness. Now, we really must be continuing our journey.”

The redcoats conferred for a moment before another of the men, a sallow-faced ginger, said “I’m afraid we cannot allow that. You are to be taken into custody to be interviewed by the Captain. It’s highly suspect to have an Englishman travelling with Scots unless he was turned spy for the Jacobites.”

Sherlock’s stomach twisted painfully. “And if I refuse?”

The ginger offered him a deeply insincere smile. “You won’t refuse.”

“He won’t be going alone,” one of the Scots said, stepping forward with a firm expression. Sherlock promised himself that he would learn his name, that was if he ever were to reunite with this group.

“He will be,” the rat-like redcoat snapped. “If there is nothing suspect he will be released post haste. Until then you will keep to your journey. You rescued him once, I am sure you can manage to do so again. Now be on your way.”

Sherlock steeled himself with a deep breath and hoisted himself up on the back of one of the British horses. As they began to ride away he looked back, trying to catch one last glimpse of Hamish, but he was still hidden from view.

This, he mused, was going to be trouble.

 

 

The journey to the nearest British stronghold was not long, but he was no less uncomfortable for it. He was led into the lavish dining hall, where a bowl of warm water and a towel were brought for him to wash his face and hands.

He hated to admit that he was thankful for these small luxuries, but he was.

He washed as best he could, shrugged out of his coat, and sank down in one of the high-backed dining chairs.

He was beginning to consider the idea that he had been forgotten when the doors opened and a rather diminutive man entered, an amused smirk on his all-too familiar face.

The captain was, of course, the British soldier whom Sherlock had first encountered after his strange travels, the one who so resembled James Moriarty that it made Sherlock’s stomach turn.

Sherlock rose to his feed, but the captain waved a hand. “Do sit, there is no need for such formality.” As he drew closer, his dark eyes narrowed. “I know you. How do I know you?”

“I…I’m sure I don’t know,” Sherlock replied. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the captain drawled. His Irish lilt stuck out like a sore thumb, but Sherlock made no mention of it. “I am Captain James Randall. My soldiers inform me that you were travelling in the company of Scottish revolutionaries. That they were _protective_ of you. Now why would that be?”

“Their Laird promised me the protection of the clan. I saved his life,” Sherlock replied, and Blackjack Jim circled behind him to pull out the chair on Sherlock’s right. Sherlock did his best not to flinch, but as Jim settled into the chair and levelled his bottomless gaze on Sherlock’s face, he held his breath for a moment.

“Mr Holmes,” Jim said with a triumphant grin. “I was born in Ireland, as I am sure you can tell.” The chuckle that followed was completely lacking of mirth. “Me mother’s name was Mary Randall, God keep her. She was nearly beaten to death by my father several times in my youth. So one night, I waited until he was so far into his drink that he couldn’t see straight. I took me mother’s iron—it was heavy, I had to hold it with both hands—and I swung it at his head. Again and again until he didn’t have a head left to swing at. I was but nine years old.”

The captain paused. There had been no emotion in his voice. He folded his hands together in his lap and pressed on. “Me mother had the bruises and the broken bones as proof of Ronan Moriarty’s violence, so they took pity on us. She took a job in London as a scullery maid, we went by her maiden name, and our lives were much better.”

Jim offered a tight smile as he stood, crossing to the small drinks cart in the corner of the room. He poured them each two fingers of scotch and returned to the table, offering one to Sherlock in silence.

Sherlock took the glass and set is down. “I don’t understand what that has to do with this,” Sherlock finally said when Jim offered no further information.”

With a poorly concealed eye roll Jim pulled the chair back from the table so that he could lean against it instead, looking Sherlock dead in the face. “It means that I am familiar with bullies, Mr Holmes. People who use their brute strength to force their will on people who are smaller and weaker. But eventually the weak snap, and they unravel. I am sure that the Scotch believe that they are being bullied by us and although it may seem appealing to help the weak, I can assure you we will not grant them the opportunity that my father granted me. If you are assisting the Scots in their silly little rebellion, you will die just like them, English or not. Do I make myself plain?”

Sherlock arched a brow. “I wish only to continue my journey. I am meeting my travel companions nearby and we are leaving this wretched place. I have no information to give them, and have no allegiance to them.”

“Really?” Captain Randall said in an overly enunciated mimic of Sherlock’s crisp accent. “Then prove it. Tell me why they are helping you, an Englishman.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again. The captain crosses his legs and the ankle and waved a hand, beckoning Sherlock to continue.

“They are visiting all the villages in the area, raising funds for Castle Leoch. I suspect some of thse friends are also going to their cause,” Sherlock finally said.

“How are they raising these funds?” Jim asked as he leaned forward slightly, studying every micro-expression that crossed Sherlock’s face.

With this question, Sherlock knew he must tread carefully. Hamish was a wanted man with a hefty price on his head. It was very likely that Jim knew of him. He could not say that Hamish was showing them his horrific scars, scaring them into submission. Sherlock licked his lips in preparation to speak when Captain Randall spoke first.

“They have him, don’t they?” he asked, his voice an adder’s hiss. “Hamish Watson. They are parading him about as proof of our savagery. My savagery.”

“ _Your_ savagery?” Sherlock asked before he could stop himself.

The triumphant gleam in the captain’s eye made Sherlock’s pulse quicken in dread.

“He is my masterpiece,” Captain Randall sighed, eyes sliding closed for a moment, smiling as someone would if they were remembering a tender kiss. “My army rode through their lands, and we were in need of water and supplies. His sister was insolent, and I was preparing to take her, as punishment. Put her mouth to better use, but he volunteered, in her place. He is a brave one, yes, but he is stupid.”

He took one-hundred lashes so well. Hardly screamed. His back—his skin was in tatters, it was glorious. His sister watched, her breasts still out and heaving with her sobs. I remember licking my lips and tasting his blood. It was transcendent.”

Captain Randall blinked slowly. There was more emotion reflected in his voice now than there had been explaining his childhood. There was colour high on his cheeks and Sherlock could see arousal written all over him. Sherlock himself felt sick, overwhelmed with the cruelty and the perversity of it all. He had heard Hamish tell of the events but this…this was different.

Jim sighed, drawing Sherlock’s attention again. “But he did not yield to me. Would not do as instructed. So he took another one-hundred. Each crack of the whip was another bold brush stroke. He fell unconscious eventually, but I did not stop. I could not stop. I did not require his presence to create my masterpiece, I only required his flesh as my lump of clay. By the end he was vomiting blood, we were both drenched in it, and he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

Sherlock lowered his head, taking steadying breaths. He felt something wet the back of his hand. A tear. He hadn’t realized he had been crying. He could hear his own breaths clearly, echoing in his skull, and he could hear Captain Randall’s breaths too, harm and shaking.

“Are they hiding him, Mr Holmes?” he asked, and his voice was right against Sherlock’s ear, his breath hot and smelling of scotch. “Are you?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, but did not move otherwise. He stared across the table. “I am hiding nothing, and there is nothing you can do to keep me here against my will. I have committed no crime.”

Jim tilted his head slightly. “Have you not? Though I do not meet many men who would readily admit his crimes.”

“If you aren’t willing to have someone take me back to where I was picked up, I’ll walk,” Sherlock snapped, standing and going for his coat. He had it on and buttoned before Jim had moved from his position leaning on the table.

“Do you really think that you would be able to leave here against my will?” Jim asked, the amused lilt back in his tone. “If you walk through those doors it is because I allowed it. And you know exactly the reason why I would allow that. Think carefully.”

Sherlock let out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll walk. This has been thoroughly unpleasant.” He then retraced his steps back out of the manor house-turned military base. He walked and walked and walked until he could not see the house anymore, and only then did he allow the seething panic in his stomach to overwhelm him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This version of James Moriarty is heavily influenced by Hannibal Lecter.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock’s sense of direction was finely tuned, one of the skills that he had honed since childhood. Mycroft would draw him elaborate treasure maps and Sherlock would set out with his compass, trying to follow the exact same path to the intended target and back. Mycroft’s maps would become more and more elaborate, and Sherlock would occasionally allow himself only five minutes to study the map, to commit it to memory. He would then close his eyes and set the challenge for himself to find his destination completely blind.

He eventually grew tired of this particular game, but the skills he had learned remained in his mind palace, tucked away in an offshoot of his garden—the hedge maze.

Because of this, Sherlock had no problem retracing the journey from the camp to the British stronghold. He had little hope that they had remained in that place to wait for him, but at least he may be able to follow their progress if provided clues along the way.

That was if his could make good time on foot. His shoes were not made for this sort of trek and he slipped in the wet underbrush occasionally, but he caught himself. His coat caught on brambles and he soon stopped trying to carefully disentangle himself from their grasp and just continued walking on. The damp was beginning to crawl up the legs of his trousers, and he tried his best not to look down. He was sure he was covered in mud.

He walked for hours, thirsty and tired. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon and Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself. He would be fine. There weren’t dangerous things living in Scotland’s forests. This is the land that chose a unicorn as it’s national animal, for heaven’s sake. He would be fine. He just needed to find a dry place to settle down for the night, which would prove a difficult task. He broke through into a clearing and looked around. It appeared to have served as a camp at some point, but not recently enough to suggest that anyone was nearby. Sherlock perched on a stone and wrapped his arms around himself in a hug, closing his eyes as he rested.

There was a very unlikely possibility that he would find a better place to stay for the night than this. He could try to start a fire, but damp wood and no flint would make that difficult. All he could do is try to stay dry and off the ground to sleep.

He was already beginning to shiver so he stood, gathering as much dry brush as he could to make a sort of pallet, but as he worked he knew that it was no use. Sleeping on a flat stone would be just as freezing as sleeping on the damp ground. There was nothing to block the wind, and he would be in quite a lot of trouble if it began to rain.

He lowered his head into his hands, squeezing it like a vice as he tried to figure out a solution to this. But there was a sound behind him: The snap of a twig. Sherlock’s heart gave an uncomfortable thump as he turned around quickly. It could be a deer, or perhaps a fox. It could be anything.

Sherlock held his breath and he heard a muffled crunch of another step. And another.

He had no weapon with which to defend himself save his phone, which he pulled out of his pocket and held tightly in his fist. As a figure emerged into the clearing, Sherlock did not hesitate to through his mobile directly at it.

“Ow, bloody hell! What on earth have you thrown at me?” The man asked, and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as he surged forward.

“Hamish,” Sherlock said, picking up his phone and putting it back in his pocket. “Nothing, it was all I had. What are you doing, where are the others?”

“They went on,” Hamish said with a little wince as he rubbed his breastbone. “But I stayed behind. Hiding in the forest and slowly making my way towards the stronghold. Careful not to be seen, of course. My horse is stashed nearby, near a small stream and under as much cover as I could manage.”

“Thank goodness,” Sherlock replied. He felt the overwhelming urge to hug the other man, but he restrained himself. “Let’s go.”

Hamish frowned, shaking his head. He set to work starting a small fire. “We can’t ride in the dark. We’ll camp here until dawn breaks and re-join everyone else in the next village. Here,” he tossed Sherlock the satchel he had been carrying. “I doubt you’ve eaten. Take something and sit down, you look ready to keel over.”

Sherlock did as instructed, chewing on a piece of salted meat. “They’re still looking for you, you know. Captain Randall suspects you are with the MacKenzies. It isn’t safe for you to stay with them.”

Hamish struck the flint with a little more force than was necessary, but a spark caught and the fire began to climb. “Did you tell him?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

“Of course I didn’t tell him!” Sherlock snapped.

Hamish didn’t look up from the fire. Instead he asked “What did he tell you?”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut. This conversation was not one he wanted to have. “He told me about your scars. How he gave them to you.”

“You make it sound like he gave me a gift,” Hamish muttered, warming his hands over the fire for a moment. “It was far from that. I don’t know how they managed to get me out of there, and most of the time I don’t know how I didn’t die. But here I am.”

Sherlock nodded, pulling a tightly rolled blanket out of the pack. “Here you are. May I ask you something?”

Hamish tensed. “If it’s about that day then no, you can’t.”

“It isn’t,” Sherlock assured. “Just… why did you stay behind for me? Most men would have probably been relieved that I was no longer their problem.”

Hamish was silent as he stared into the fire. He tossed in a few larger sticks before he shrugged. “Don’t know. But it felt like I had to. After all you’ve done for me.”

Sherlock nodded, wrapping himself in the blanket. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Hamish shrugged again. “Come on, if we’re going to be leaving with the dawn we had better get some rest.”

“There’s only one blanket,” Sherlock said. “And I’m not too keen on giving it up.”

Hamish frowned slightly in confusion. “In order to keep warm we will need to sleep close together. We can share the blanket. 

Sherlock nodded. Of course, it made sense. He moved closer to the fire, settling down next to it, watching the flames. His eyes were already beginning to droop and he laid down, drawing his legs up to his chest.

“We’re meant to be sharing the blanket,” Hamish groused as he tugged it free of Sherlock’s shoulders before settling down beside him, draping the blanket over both of their bodies as he scooted closer, so that their bodies were pressed up against each other. “There, alright?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes already closed. His face was warmed by the fire and although he wasn’t comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, he was too exhausted for it to make much difference. “Fine. If you want to switch places to be closer to the fire in the night just wake me up.”

Hamish made a noncommittal noise at Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock wanted to press his point but his mouth wasn’t working. He was already falling asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock woke up slowly. He was warm and surprisingly comfortable, especially as he had to sleep rough. As he became more aware of his body he realized that his head was resting against Hamish’s chest, his arm slung over his ribcage. Hamish’s heartbeat was loud and strong against his ear. One of Hamish’s arms was wrapped around him, not really holding him but not really allowing him to be too far away.  
  
Sherlock froze, his eyes snapping open. He slowly pulled his arm back, despite how warm and comfortable he had been, and Hamish’s chest shook with a soft laugh. “If you had slept much longer I think you would have ended up on top of me. I don’t make the best cot, but I suppose I kept you warm better than the fire could.”  
  
“You could have shoved me off, you know,” Sherlock grumbled, scrubbing his eyes. “Come on, we need to get moving.”

Hamish stretched, sitting up as he began to roll the blanket up, resting the completed roll on his knees as he dug through the pack. “Here, have something to eat so that you don’t complain the entire journey. We can fill the bladders I brought when we gather the horse.”  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose a bit at the stale bread and dried meat, but took it without complaint. He scattered the ashes of the fire as he ate, watching Hamish pack everything away. “Do you think it wise to meet back up with the travellers? Shouldn’t we… I don’t know, do you think it safe to continue staying with the MacKenzies?”  
  
Hamish slung the pack over his good shoulder and started towards the stream where he had left his horse, and Sherlock followed. “What would you suggest we do, Sherlock? What, live in this forest for the rest of our lives? You aren’t well suited for that sort of life, to put it plainly. And I’ve had quite enough of hiding, if I’m being honest.”  
  
Sherlock was silent as he watched stared a hole through Hamish’s back. “He’ll find you, and he’ll kill you, but not before he has had his fill. Do you want that?”  
  
Hamish walked a few paces in silence. “I won’t even respond to that particular lunacy,” he finally snapped.  
  
Sherlock’s jaw snapped shut, and he rolled his eyes to the sky. This bloody man.  
  
They walked in silence for a while longer before Sherlock reluctantly asked “How is your shoulder?”  
  
“It’s fine,” He replied. “I took the stiches out myself, they were bothersome and even an idiot like me could manage that.”  
  
Sherlock silently fumed, tossing the rest of the bread into the underbrush and surging forward when he saw the stream.  
He knelt beside the water and drank a couple of handfuls of water, grateful for the cool liquid. He splashed his face and shook the stray droplets out of his hair before standing back up, looking warily at the horse grazing nearby.  
  
“There is nowhere else for me to go,” Hamish said as he knelt to fill the bladders at the stream. His normally steadfast tone faltering slightly.  
  
Sherlock steepled his fingers. There had to be something. He closed his eyes, rifling through his Mind Palace for something, anything that may help.  
  
The English were the ones who had put a price on Hamish’s head, so the English would have to be the ones who got rid of the bounty. There had to be someone nearby, someone with power outside of the military—someone with more power than the Captain. Appeal to that man, and Hamish would be free.  
  
He smiled slowly, beginning to open his eyes. He was interrupted by a bodily shake and he came out of his Mind Palace with an uncomfortable jerk. “What are you doing?” he snapped, pushing Hamish away from him.  
  
“I called your name a number of times, and you gave no answer. I was afraid you had been overtaken by something. Are you well?”  
  
“Yes, of course I’m well,” Sherlock snapped. “I was thinking. Perhaps that is something with which you aren’t familiar.” He knew that it was a tired insult, but it sufficed.  
  
“You cannot fault me for my concern,” Hamish grumbled. “What were you thinking of that pulled you so far away?”  
  
_You_ was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue. He nearly lost control and answered thusly, but he reigned in his tongue in time to prevent that particular indicator of sentiment. “A plan that includes saving your life and getting me back on my way home. We will meet up with the convoy at Craigh na Dun. We will stay at the inn there. I will dress in the silly tartan so I don’t stick out any more than necessary for our travels. After a rest and a bit of investigation on my part we will write an appeal outlining the horrors that Captain Randall has committed and deliver it to someone above his station. They will see that his charges against you are wrong and the price on your head is unjust. They will have no choice but to reverse their decision. After your release is secured we will return to Craigh na Dun and I can get back on my journey home.”  
  
Hamish watched this whole recitation with a blank expression, the lines on his face growing deeper with each word. When Sherlock fell silent he allowed one beat of silence, then two before speaking. “What makes you sure that this higher authority will listen to reason?”  
  
Sherlock’s smirk was small but sure. “Because you have proof written all over your back and I have the admission to prove it. And, above all else, I am an Englishman.”  
  
Hamish made a strange sort of noise, a mixture of laughter and a snort of indignation. He scratched at his ginger beard as he thought. “Very well. Your idea is mad, but I will not argue with thee. If you wish to attempt to free me, you have a better chance of doing so than most.”  
  
“Excellent, let’s get on with it,” Sherlock said, trying his best to approach Hamish’s horse without showing his apprehension. The horse made a huffing noise and Sherlock jumped. Just slightly.  
  
Hamish climbed onto the horse before holding out a hand to help Sherlock up. Sherlock settled into the saddle the best he could and they were off.  
  
Sherlock had begun to doze eventually, closing his eyes as they road steadily onward. He was not sure how long he rode that way, half awake and half asleep, but when he opened his eyes again he saw them.  
  
The standing stones.  
  
They were off to their left, near a steep cliff and stark against the bright grey sky. A quiet voice in his brain wished to demand that Hamish stop and let him off, but the voice was easily overpowered. The frantic desire to get to Craigh na Dun had been replaced with a desire to make sure Hamish was a free man and that Captain Randall paid for his crimes.  
  
They rode past the stones and into the town proper. It was small and what John would have described as quaint, which was another work for boring in Sherlock’s mind. The inn was near the city centre, and they arrived nearing lunch time. Sherlock had a strange sense of déjà vu as he approached, because the inn was not the same building that still stood in Craigh na Dun, but it was in the same spot and looked very similar, as if the new inn was build to be replica of the original.  
  
“We’d like a room and a bit of food,” Hamish said to the barkeep, and Sherlock kept close to his side. There were men and women alike in the pub staring at him, not sure what to make of his strange attire and their mud-caked appearance.  
  
Hamish procured the key and gave it to Sherlock, who proceeded to slip it into his pocket and lead them to a small table near the back of the pub. “Wouldn’t the men be staying here if they were still in town?” Sherlock asked, stretching his legs out under the table. “I’m sure they’ve gathered enough money to pay for a room for a night.”  
  
“I’ll have to do a bit of investigating to see, we wouldn’t know unless we look,” Hamish said with a shrug. “If they’ve moved on then we still have your grand plan, right?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, and they were delivered two bowls of stewed meat and crusty bread. Sherlock thanked a god that he didn’t believe in that it wasn’t haggis again. He couldn’t have stomached it.  
  
When his stomach was full, he longed to go upstairs and take a nap, but they had plenty of daylight left and Sherlock needed to ask around town if there were any landed gentry near this area. That would be his best bet. When he outlined the plan Hamish nodded. “I’ll go search for the men and meet you back here,” he said as he stood, resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment before leaving for his side of the quest.  
  
Sherlock had learned after many years of working as a detective that the best person to ask about the comings and goings of a town is the barkeep. And so he did.

  
By the time Hamish returned for the evening Sherlock had taken a bath, or as close as he had been able to get since being in Scotland. They had brought him a large metal basin with water and he scrubbed himself until his skin turned pink. He had nothing clean in which to dress so he scrounged around the room until he found a very large and threadbare tunic that had been left behind in a drawer by a former traveller. It held no odour than that of dust and misuse so Sherlock pulled it on before climbing into bed.  
  
He was just beginning to dose off when the door opened and Hamish came in, holding a cloth sack and looking rather worse for the wear. “Found someone who told me they moved on early this morning, on to the next town.” He tossed the back to Sherlock. “Here you are: a kilt. I also got some sort of breeches for you, since you seem to fond of them. I might make a proper Highlander of you yet.”  
  
“Doubtful, but I do appreciate the effort,” Sherlock said as he pulled out the pieces one by one. Hamish had gotten him a kilt, some smallclothes, a pair of soft cotton breeches and a tunic. Sherlock was not sure if he had begged the clothes off of someone or if he had bought them, but for a moment he was speechless. “I…I think I will require some new shoes as well,” he said softly. “Perhaps tomorrow? Boots, perhaps.”  
  
Hamish nodded. “Of course.”  
  
Sherlock offered him a small smile before putting the clothes back into the bag. “Thank you, Hamish. Your kindness never ceases to surprise me.”  
  
Hamish grinned as he rang for a basin of hot water to be brought up for him, and he tugged his tunic off over his head, tossing it aside. He rolled his shoulders, his wince slight and barely noticeable, and Sherlock inspected the wound as best he could. It really did look better, not that he would give any credit to Hamish for that fact.  
  
When the water arrived Hamish unfastened his kilt and let it drop, setting to work efficiently scrubbing the points of his body he felt were the most necessary to keep clean.  
  
Sherlock tried not to watch. He did. But Hamish’s back was to him and the slight curve of his arse was distracting, especially as he bent over a bit to get a good angle to scrub his…well.  
  
Sherlock blushed and closed his eyes, listening to the gentle splashes of the water as Hamish’s bath continued.  
It seemed to take him forever, but soon Hamish was as clean as he was going to get. He had dunked his head into the water at the end, and his dark blonde hair hung in wet waves around his face. He had put on a fresh tunic from his pack before settling down on the other side of the bed, letting out a soft sigh of contentment as he settled onto the straw mattress.  
“The man who we need to speak to is the Lord of Sandringham,” Sherlock told Hamish, watching his face carefully in the flickering light of the candle that sat at the side of the bed. “I have directions to his manor. We can get there in a few hours’ ride easy enough. I’ll write the appeal in the morning and we can be on our way.”  
  
Hamish nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. “That is a plan indeed.”  
  
Sherlock yawned, already starting to dose again. “Night John,” he muttered, his tongue heavy with exhaustion.  
  
And he slept.


	15. Chapter 15

John had not missed a single shift at the clinic. He arrived to work on time, chatted with the receptionist for a few minutes as he prepared his morning tea, and went to his office to get caught up on the paperwork left over from the previous day. He took patient after patient, each ailment more dull and simple as the one that came before.  
  
He was thankful for the monotony of the work most of the time: he could diagnose piles or hives or a cold with his eyes closed. He was thankful because even though he was always on time and he hadn’t missed a shift, he could not focus on the work.  
  
His mind was in Scotland.  
  
He was walking back to the flat after a particularly sick child-heavy afternoon when a black car pulled up beside him. The door swung open and John let out a put upon sigh as he walked over to climb in. “I was in the neighbourhood and thought I would offer you a ride home,” Mycroft said as he slipped his mobile in his pocket.  
  
“I’m sure,” John sighed, leaning his head back against the headrest. “I get the feeling I would have got a call from you if there was any news, so why this?”  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat, looking out through the darkly tinted window. “I would like you to return to Scotland. I will, of course, make all of the arrangements with your job and with the inn, but I do not feel that the police are adequately handling the situation. I have asked DI Lestrade but he suggested I offer it to you instead.”  
  
“Why did you ask Greg before me?” John asked, narrowing his eyes a bit.  
  
Mycroft’s ears went a bit pink as he folded his hands in his lap. “He was quite keen on the opportunity to get out of London previously when I asked him to assist you and Sherlock in Dewar’s Hollow, I thought he might appreciate the holiday.”  
  
“Right,” John said sceptically, but did not press the matter. “What do you want me to do in Scotland? Wander about every day until he turns up? I searched everywhere I knew to search before.”  
  
“It’s a case, John,” Mycroft sighed. “You know Sherlock’s methods better than everyone save me. Solve it. Do research on the area; see if there are any other strange disappearances. Why am I explaining this to you, you’ve done it countless times before.”  
  
John could see the flat coming up, and every fibre of his being wanted to thank Mycroft for the opportunity to go back and to continue his search. “As if I would say no to that,” John replied. “I’ll pack a bag and you can just send me the travel information. I can leave today, just need to let Mrs Hudson know I’m off again.”  
  
Mycroft nodded. “Find him, John,” he said after a moment, finally looking at John. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he looked like he had aged ten years in the brief time Sherlock had been gone. It was true that Mycroft was a git, but he did care about Sherlock quite a lot, despite everything he had done.  
  
John nodded, opening the car door. “I’ll do my best, Mycroft.”  
  
“That is all I can ask,” Mycroft replied. “Expect a series of emails.”  
  
John closed the car door and turned towards the flat with a sigh of relief.  
  


It turned out that there was record of such a disappearance occurring in the 1940s. A man and his wife had stayed in the same inn, visited the same standing stones, and the wife had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The husband had searched for ages. The police reports had mentions of a mysterious man watching the wife through the window the night before she disappeared, and the police had come to the conclusion that it had been a lover she had taken during the war and they had decided to run off together, but the husband had refused to believe it.  
  
John got a bit bored reading through all the pages upon pages of documentation, because at some point a writer had picked up on the story and had started writing a fictionalized version of the story, so it very quickly became difficult to tell what was actually part of the original account and what was added when it became a book series. The local library had the first couple of novels, but they were checked out and there was a waiting list, presumably because the books had recently been turned into a television show.  
  
John soon gave up searching the internet for clues and texted Greg to see if he could call in a favour and get hold of the original police report from the 1940s. He sent all the details he had along and went for a bit of a walk to clear his head. He ignored the twinge that was starting to reappear in his leg in Sherlock’s absence. He hated the way his body manifested his depression physically. It started to rain and he ducked under the awning for the nearest shop, which seemed to be some sort of silly little tourist trap that sold all number of pagan souvenirs, crystals, stones and candles that were meant for different rituals. The smell of incense was overwhelming and John stepped a bit farther into the shop, eyeing the small replicas of the standing stones with annoyance.  
  
“Welcome to _Sassenach_ ,” the young woman behind the counter called, even though she didn’t look up from the book she was reading. The title looked familiar; it was one of the books that had been based on the disappearance of the woman from the 1940s.  
  
John walked over to the crystal area. There was a large collection of salt lamps that set off a warm yellow glow, but John spent his time reading the tags on the other crystals, the ones that were meant to help with specific issues. One, called Chalcopyrite, was labelled as helpful in finding lost objects or persons. He shook his head even as he picked up the stone. It was a strange greenish gold, and the price tag seemed a bit ridiculous for a rock, but he cursed under his breath and took it to the register.  
After he paid for it he slipped it in his jacket pocket, where he decided it would stay until Sherlock turned back up. It didn’t hurt to try, even if it was just a silly superstition.  
  
The rain had stopped, and John set off back towards the inn to wait to hear back from Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit fun, to be honest. 
> 
> The next couple of chapters are done, expect more in a few days!


	16. Chapter 16

Next morning, it came as no surprise that his body had sought out Hamish’s as he slept. They were both lying on their sides facing each other, and one of Sherlock’s thighs was slotted between the other man’s. His heat laid pillowed on Hamish’s bicep and they were sharing each breath. He shifted his leg slightly and Hamish made a noise of protest, cracking open an eye to look at Sherlock as he tightened his thighs around Sherlock’s like a vice. “God, do you ever stop moving?” he grumbled, voice low and breath sour from sleep. “You flail all night; I have to hold you still.”   
  
All at once Sherlock realized where exactly his thigh was resting. He swallowed thickly as a wave of cold hit him, something akin to panic. He tried to pull his thigh away again and Hamish only squeezed tighter, letting out another low sound. “Let me go,” Sherlock said softly, but Hamish made no indication that he had heard. He was busy sliding his hand up Sherlock’s side, dragging the loose fabric of the tunic up with it. He rocked down on Sherlock’s thigh, leaning forward to try to capture his lips in a kiss, but Sherlock turned his face away at the last minute, each of his preceding movements controlled and practiced. He jerked his knee up into the soft flesh of Hamish’s scrotum, which knocked the air from the other man’s lungs. While he was taken off guard Sherlock ripped free of his grip, flipping their positions so that he was poised over the other man, one hand wrapped around his neck while the other pinned his hands over his head.   
  
“You are not allowed to touch me without my permission,” Sherlock snarled, tightening his grip on Hamish’s neck. The other man made a wheezing noise but Sherlock pressed on. “You will not hold me down, do you understand? You have no right to my body unless I grant it. I am fucking saving your life and you don’t get to treat me like your tarts back home. Nod if you understand.”   
  
Hamish’s pupils were blown as he stared up at Sherlock in a sort of wonder , and he nodded once. With one last squeeze to punctuate his point Sherlock climbed off of him, going instead to dress. “Good. I’m going downstairs to eat breakfast and work on the appeal. You can join me when you’ve regained your dignity.”  
  
Sherlock dressed in silence that was punctuated only by Hamish’s elevated breathing. He had not moved from his position on the bed, and Sherlock was in no mood to witness his hangdog expression, so he did not look his way. He would not be manipulated by this man who thought that he could take his own pleasure from Sherlock without his consent. He would not be rutted against just because someone had woken up with an erection.   
  
He silently fumed as he went downstairs and ate some gruel and surprisingly nice smoked salmon. He fumed as he wrote the appeal to Lord Sandringham and did not let the recounting of the horrors that Hamish had been subjected to quell his anger.   
When Hamish came downstairs and went straight outside without breakfast, Sherlock was not concerned. Oh, his poor bruised manhood. Sherlock folded the appeal and tucked it into the small pouch at his waist before going outside.   
  
“Do you still wish to visit the Lord, then?” Hamish asked without looking at Sherlock. “I can take you straight to…”   
  
“Of course I do,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head. “And I’d rather you didn’t play the martyr. Get on the bloody horse and ride north along the tree line. I have been told that the manor is visible far in advance, as it sits on the crest of a hill.”   
  
“But…”   
  
“Shut up and get on the fucking horse.”   
  
Hamish heaved out a great sigh and mounted. He held out his hand for Sherlock but he refused, instead using the stirrups to climb up on his own. Once he was settled Hamish snapped the reigns and they were off again, due north.   
  
They rode in silence for a while, until Hamish cleared his throat. “What… what is fucking?” he asked over his shoulder. “You’ve said that twice now, what does it mean?”   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward. “It’s what you were trying to do earlier. Sex.”   
  
“Ah,” Hamish replied after a moment. “That doesn’t make sense.”   
  
“It’s just a curse, in London. Something someone says when they are angry.”   
  
Hamish nodded, but didn’t say anything further for a few strides of their steed. “I do… I do apologize, for before,” Hamish finally ground out. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”   
  
“I’m not entirely convinced that you were,” Sherlock replied with a shrug.   
  
Hamish nodded. “This is not a conversation to be had now. Perhaps later.”   
  
“This is a conversation I would prefer not to have at all,” Sherlock replied. “You are engaged and you have a lover on top of that. I think you have quite enough sex as it stands, and sex is not something I find terribly appealing.”   
  
Hamish made a sound of disbelief. “That… I’m sorry, but perhaps you haven’t been doing it right.”   
  
“I haven’t been doing it at all. It is rare that I feel the urge, and when I do I take care of it on my own.”   
  
Hamish shook his head slightly. “Are you not lonely?”   
  
Sherlock wasn’t sure how to answer that question. He thought about it for a moment before he said “I don’t know. I suppose I am, sometimes. But caring about people complicates things. It makes one do things one would normally not do.”   
  
“Like spend the morning writing an appeal to the Lord of Sandringham?”   
  
Sherlock shoved Hamish’s good shoulder. “Fuck off.”   
  
Hamish chuckled. “You can fuck off, not me.”  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Oh, picking up the way I speak, are you?”   
  
As the horse made it to the top of the hill they could see the grounds of the manor, manicured and beautiful. Hamish urged the horse forward. “If I start sounding like a posh twat you’ll let me know, yeah?”   
  
Sherlock tried his very best not to laugh, and the rest of the ride passed in compatible silence.   
  
They were met by two footmen when they made it onto the grounds proper. “Hello, I am Sherlock Holmes and I have come to speak to the Lord of Sandringham. I have a list of charges I wish to bring to his attention concerning the British army’s treatment of the Scottish people.”   
  
“We will announce your arrival to the Lord,” One of the footman said. The other took the horse to the stable for some water and a rest. Sherlock and Hamish walked the rest of the way to the manor house, waiting in the entrance hall to be instructed where to go next.   
  
“This place is beyond what is necessary,” Hamish whispered, his voice echoing. “Why does anyone need this much?”   
  
“It is a show of power and of wealth,” Sherlock replied. “Nothing more. None of this is practical.”   
  
Hamish tightened his hands into fists as he took in everything in the entrance hall, from the enormous canvas paintings to the elaborate marble sculptures. “The money that his man has wasted on these things could feed the surrounding villages for days. Possibly even months.”   
  
“Why don’t you just keep quiet while we are here, yes?” Sherlock said softly. “If you offend him there is no way he will consider not turning you over to the British army. Just let me do the talking.”   
  
“Good thing you enjoy talking so much,” Hamish grumbled. Sherlock started to reply but he heart the approach of echoing footsteps down the corridor.   
  
The footman arrived, leading them down to what appeared to be the library. They both sat in wing backed leather chairs. Sherlock tugged down his kilt and crossed his legs, and Hamish sank down in his chair. “So are we just meant to wait for himself to arrive?” Hamish asked, folding his hands in his lap.   
  
“Yes, that is how this sort of thing works,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. “Just…sit there. Try not to frown too much at him. Just…sit there.”   
  
“Yes my laird,” Hamish sighed, leaning his head back against the back of his chair and closing his eyes.   
  
“I’m not your laird,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “You are your own laird.” Tired of sitting, Sherlock stood to cross to the nearest book shelf to examine the drinks tray that was sitting in front of it. The scotch glasses looked familiar, and when he studied one closer he noticed that the artist’s embossment was exactly the same as those that Captain Randall had served him a drink from.   
  
Ah. That was it. Sherlock replaced the glass to the tray and went back to his chair, a smug smirk on his face. “What is it?” Hamish asked but Sherlock shook his head slightly as the door to the library opened.   
  
The footman came in first. “May I present his Lordship, Duke of Sandringham.”   
  
Sherlock stood and motioned for Hamish to do the same. He did so without hesitation.  
  
The man who stepped in was… well. It took everything in him for Sherlock to not break out into uncontrollable laughter. He hated to admit that it was very likely that this man was one of his ancestors, but it was. He reminded Sherlock so much of his brother Mycroft that it was too much of a coincidence to believe otherwise.   
  
The man was not as tall as Mycroft, but he was three times as wide. The bottom two buttons of his vest were left open because there was no way that they would ever be able to be fastened closed. He was older than his brother was, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties, and the skin of his chin was drooping over his collar and held a crepey appearance. His nose was large and hooked, skin pale as milk, and the ridiculous powdered wig on his head hid what Sherlock was sure was thinning auburn hair.   
  
His heeled shoes clicked as he hobbled deeper into the room. “Do please sit, may I pour you a drink?” Sherlock and Hamish sat.   
  
“No thank you My Lord, we simply wish to deliver this letter and be on our way,” Sherlock replied.   
  
“I see, I see, straight to business,” Lord Sandringham said as he poured himself a drink before coming over to sit across from them. “My man informed me that you have charges to level against the British army. Rather bold of you, is it not Mr Holmes?”   
  
“I do not believe so, no,” Sherlock replied, pulling out the formal appeal and holding it out for the man. “I was illegally taken into their custody and was threatened by a Captain James Randall. He told me of a time where he and his men raided the private residence of my friend here. He threatened to rape his sister when they would not willingly be stolen from, but Hamish stepped in to keep her from such humiliation. He was given two-hundred lashes. Two hundred. Captain Randall told me that he felt quite a lot of pleasure from this torture, this extreme abuse of power. Hamish barely survived the brutal attack. He was rescued by friends and since then there has been a price on his head. Captain Randall has a personal vendetta against this man simply because he would not submit. This is an egregious abuse of power and is grounds for his dismissal from his position.”   
  
Sherlock motioned to Hamish who stood. “Would you mind showing the Lord your scars?” Sherlock asked, and Hamish nodded, untucking his tunic and pulling up the fabric enough so that the Lord could see the twisted scarring there.   
  
“My god,” Lord Sandringham gasped, tossing back the rest of his drink. “My dear boy, you are lucky to be alive!” Hamish nodded but sat back down, looking back at Sherlock, who was studying the Lord’s face, which had gone a bit green. “Mr Holmes, these are serious allegations. Very serious. Captain Randall may be…unorthodox…but this uprising requires such methods.”   
  
“Is that why you are looking the other way? Protecting him? Giving his gifts and favour?” Sherlock asked, his words rapid fire.   
“Because you believe that his methods are the only way to keep the Scottish under British control?”   
  
The Lord spluttered, eyes wide as he looked from Sherlock to Hamish. “I…well I never… I have no idea what gave you that impression…”   
  
“There is no reason to deny it, but if you do not listen to our appeal and reconsider the charges that have been levelled against Hamish Watson I am not sure I will be able to keep this information to myself. Do you understand?”   
  
The Lord nodded as he dabbed sweat from his forehead and his upper lip with a kerchief he had pulled from his vest pocket. “I… well, I can tell you that I can consider your allegations. Now, I believe it is time for luncheon, would you and your companion care to dine with me? I can tell the kitchens to set the table for three.”   
  
“Yes, that would be lovely,” Sherlock said with a tight smile, even as he could feel Hamish’s eyes boring into him.   
  
“Excellent, very excellent,” the Lord said, tucking his handkerchief away and standing. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a bit of business to attend to before luncheon. Feel free to peruse my library, have a drink, whatever you wish. My man will come fetch you when the table’s set.”   
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said with a little bow that Hamish mirrored stiffly. The Lord of Sandringham excused himself, his wig slightly askew.   
  
When the door snapped shut behind him Sherlock let out a sigh, sinking back down in the chair. “What on God’s green earth was that?” Hamish hissed. “Did you just make all of those things up to frighten him?”   
  
“No, it’s all true,” Sherlock said, pointing to the Lord’s abandoned scotch glass. “He gifted Captain Randall a set of those exact glasses. A simple mistake. It explains everything, how Randall has gotten away with all that he has done in the highlands.”   
  
Hamish shook his head slightly. “And we are staying to have dinner with him why, exactly?”   
  
“I need him to understand that I am serious about my threat. And I need more time to do so. I need him to think I know exactly what he has allowed to happen, and he needs to see you just as human as any Englishman. Do you think you can manage civility? Play up how difficult it has been for you and for your people. Do you know how your sister has been, how your land and people have been affected by the British occupation? Anything, everything. But don’t insult him personally. Imply that it is all Randall’s fault, not Sandringham’s fault.”   
  
Hamish nodded silently, smoothing his hand over his beard as he thought. “Do you think he’ll come to a decision today?”   
  
Sherlock sighed, but shook his head. “No. He will wish to meet with Randall, pass on instruction. We shall see how long that will take. Perhaps if we give him a deadline we will be able to speed up the process.”   
  
Hamish nodded, pouring himself a drink and throwing it back. “For courage,” he said afterwards, setting the glass down. He turned back to Sherlock, who had his legs stretched out in front of him in the chair, massaging his temples. “You look… you look quite fetching in tartan. I’m sure that you’d rather not hear that, I know how you despise it.”  
  
Sherlock opened one of his eyes to look over at Hamish, who was standing quite awkwardly by the drinks table, his hands clasped behind his back. “Are you honestly complimenting my appearance after this morning? And you think that’s going to go well for you?”  
  
“I am not attempting to…” Hamish sighed, shaking his head. “Never you mind. Forget I said anything.”   
  
Sherlock chuckled, looking at him properly. “I am teasing you, Hamish. Calm down.”   
  
“Bastard,” Hamish groaned, scrubbing his face with his hands. “How did you know my true surname? I don’t recall telling you my family name.”   
  
Sherlock swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He had slipped. Damn. “Captain Randall used it, when he spoke of you.”   
  
Hamish nodded, looking over to the library door. “I see. I should like to have shown you my home, before you left. I haven’t been there since I fled, but I have had word that my sister and her maid are taking quite good care in my absence.”   
  
“I am sure it helps lighten the load of stress, knowing that everything is alright in your absence,” Sherlock said, not quite sure what else to say.   
  
He was saved by a gentle knock on the library door, and they were summoned to luncheon with the Lord of Sandringham.   
Sherlock has not looked forward to a lunch in quite a long time.


	17. Chapter 17

The food was rather simple fair- goose liver pate, a soft white cheese, pickle and olives with an assortment of toast. Sherlock couldn’t help the amusement when he watched Hamish eye the mound of pate with trepidation, picking up his knife to poke at it.   
  
“Have you not had a nice pate before, Mr Watson?” Sandringham asked through his own mouthful. Sherlock was carefully spreading the mousse onto a square of toast before topping it with a bit of pickle, and Hamish mirrored his actions to the best of his ability.   
  
“I can’t say as much, no,” Hamish replied as he pierced his toast and it crumbled to the plate. Sherlock took pity and handed over his prepared square, which Hamish took with a relieved sigh. He took a rather enthusiastic bite, which was soon tempered by the slight change in the man’s face the more he chewed. He eventually swallowed, reaching for the glass of wine to quickly wash away any remnants of taste. “Well, I suppose it’s… it must be French.”   
  
Sherlock only allowed himself to laugh after the Lord did the same, and Hamish instead picked up a bare square of toast, eating that instead.   
  
“I suppose I cannot hold you responsible for your lack of a refined palate,” the Lord said through his laughter. “When one eats porridge and stomachs, one cannot be expected to appreciate the delicacies of other cultures.”   
  
“If that be a delicacy of another culture, I will be more than willing to stick with the porridge,” Hamish replied, spearing a pickle with the tines of his fork before bringing it to his nose for a sniff. It seemed to pass the test, so he ate it with a pleased hum.   
  
“He is not worldly like you or me,” Sherlock said gently, patting the back of Hamish’s free hand, which drew a slight frown from the other man. “His are a simple people who wish only to live life the way that they have for centuries. We cannot blame them for their anger at being invaded, not should we blame them for their will to fight back.”   
  
The Lord shook his head very slightly as he reached for his wine. “Surely you must understand that the English mean them no harm or no ill will, but are simply trying to bring them into the eighteenth century!”   
  
“It’s the year of our Lord 1743, what use do we have in the eighteenth century,” Hamish drawled, and Sherlock kicked him in the shin under the table. Hard. With a wince Hamish added “Although we… we very much appreciate…”   
  
“…The introduction of more modern ways and conveniences,” Sherlock finished, brushing some of the crumbs of toast from the tablecloth to the ground. “I believe they thought me a witch when they found me first.”   
  
“Warlock,” Hamish corrected. “You’re a _fear_ , not a _boireannach_ ,” Hamish corrected as he tried to run an olive through with his fork with little success.   
  
“My, what a guttural language,” Sandringham exclaimed with an uncomfortable shiver. Hamish’s olive managed to escape from his plate and he gave up, snatching it up with his fingers.   
  
“I am sure the King’s English sounds much the same to a native speaker of anything but,” Sherlock said, ignoring the soft sound of distaste beside him as Hamish discovered that he apparently was not a fan of olives either.   
  
“Now you must tell me how a man such as yourself found your way in the Scottish highlands,” Sandringham prompted, leaning toward Sherlock slightly with intrigue written on his face. “You are of noble birth, what say your family? I cannot say that your family name is not familiar to me. You are a cousin, yes?”   
  
Sherlock took a fortifying sip of wine. “I was travelling to visit my mother’s family in France, and I was held up at gunpoint. They stole everything from me. I encountered English soldiers and was very nearly killed when Clan MacKenzie found me and took me in. They had done the same for Mr Watson, helped an outsider even though they had no reason to. They saved my life, rescued me from my own people.”   
  
“Were the British army the villains who stole your horse and property?” Sandringham asked, almost hesitantly. Sherlock nodded once, and the Lord pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, my dear man. I shall see to it that you have everything you require to continue your journey to visit family. That is… quite unacceptable. They will be reprimanded for what they have done!”   
  
“It is a pittance compared to what they have done to Mr Watson,” Sherlock said, looking back over to Hamish, who was in the middle of spitting the pit of the olive into his hand.   
  
“Yes,” he said, trying to be sly about putting the pit back onto his plate but failing rather spectacularly. “I have been unable to return to my family’s land, leaving only my sister to take care of the farm that has been in our family for generations. She has become the Laird there in my absence. I don’t know what has become of her, if she is married, if she has sons… nothing. I often wonder if she is still alive.”   
  
The room fell silent as their luncheon was cleared. The Lord picked up his glass of wine, swirling it under his nose as he considered Hamish’s words. “I am hosting a dinner with the highest ranking officers stationed with the armies nearby tonight, as it happens. It will be the ideal opportunity to speak with Captain Randall and address these allegations. If I find that there has been wrongdoing, as it appears to me to be the case, the charges against Mr Watson will of course be dropped. But I cannot promise that things will not be made more difficult for him and his people if such a thing does happen. I fear that I am not in a position to relieve Captain Randall of his duties.”   
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly. “What information does he have, then? How is he blackmailing you?”   
  
The Lord turned puce and finished off the rest of his wine. “I would like to extend an invitation to you, Mr Holmes, to tonight’s dinner. I’m afraid inviting Mr Watson as well would cause quite the uproar.”   
  
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “I… I accept, of course.”   
  
“Excellent,” Sandringham said with a clap of his meaty hands. “Excellent. I shall see you later this evening. If you require formal attire I can have my men deliver them to the inn where you are staying.”   
  
Sherlock nodded. “That would be appreciated. I have nothing save the clothes on my back.”   
  
Sandringham’s nod was solemn, and he stood. Sherlock followed quickly in suit, dragging Hamish up with him. “Very well. I shall send a carriage for you at half six. I do look forward to this evening.” He was still a bit green in the face, so Sherlock had a difficult time believing the words.   
  
“Thank you very much for hosting us this afternoon,” Sherlock said with a slight bow, which Hamish awkwardly mirrored.   
And with that, they were dismissed. The horse was waiting for them outside and Hamish took the reigns from the footman, setting off at a walk back to the village, leading the horse along. “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, jogging a few steps to catch up with the other man.   
  
“What am I doing?” Hamish snapped, whirling around on his heel. “What are you doing? You just accepted a dinner with Blackjack fucking Jim and all of his men! You might as well offered yourself to him on a silver platter!”   
  
“Better me than you,” Sherlock replied, and it was definitely the wrong thing to say. Hamish’s expression darkened and he dropped the reigns, shaking his head.   
  
“Take the horse,” he said before turning. “I cannot speak to ye at the moment. Just…go.”   
  
“Hamish, I…”   
  
“GO.” His tone left no room for argument. Sherlock swallowed thickly, watching the other man’s retreating back for a moment before mounting the horse. His fear of the animal had been replaced by the fear of that expression on Hamish’s face.  
  
Still, he spurred the steed on towards the village.


	18. Chapter 18

After the first three hours had passed, Sherlock was not sure that Hamish was going to come back. Lord Sandringham’s men had come and gone, and Sherlock had hung the tuxedo over the back of the door.  He bathed again to kill time, hoped that his hair would at least attempt to behave itself, and decided that putting his kilt back on at this point would be silly. Instead he pulled on his pants, which had been washed and returned by the inn staff. He did put his tunic back on, frowning as his hair flopped forward in his face as he sat down on the bed. Perhaps he could find some sort of product for his hair to make him look a bit more appropriate for a formal dinner.

He didn’t feel up for exploring the village, and a quick search of the pack Hamish had brought with him turned up no money. Sherlock lay down, folding his hands over his chest and staring at the ceiling. He was beginning to doze, wishing that he had stolen the violin from the MacKenzies when he had the chance.  He was tired and he wanted something to do besides think about everything that could go wrong this evening.

No. As long as he made sure that he was never caught alone with Captain Randall he would be fine. If he stuck with Sandringham nothing too dire would happen. Hamish would be free and he could, in good conscious, return to his own time. That is if he could figure out how to do so. 

He tried not to let his mind linger too long on the consequences of this action. If Hamish were caught out and executed, would that mean that John would never have been born? Was he, by way of interfering with the past, causing ripples of change throughout history? It was a ridiculous notion, one that made his heat hurt, so he pushed it aside. He was not a fan of history so had no knowledge other than what John had been droning on and on about on the train, so he couldn’t really know for certain.

Saving Hamish’s life was the best way to ensure that John has a chance to exist. And if John didn’t exist by the time he made it home, all of this would have been for nothing.

The more time he was away the more certain he was that he cared deeply for John. No. That was an understatement. When Hamish would smile at him a certain way, or make a sound of frustration or amusement, Sherlock would be so reminded of John that it made his chest ache, only for a second. He had to get back, if only for the opportunity to tell John how very much his friendship means to Sherlock. If an opportunity for more presented itself, well…

Sherlock did not allow himself to pursue that train of thought. That way laid madness. But as he lay there, imagining the look on John’s face when Sherlock found his way back at last—that sustained him and gave him the courage to prepare for the coming evening.

He rubbed his cheek and frowned at the scratch of his slow-growing stubble. He knew Hamish had no razor; perhaps he could manage sharpening a knife enough to manage a shave. He was considering the idea when the door to their room opened and Hamish came in, an artfully blank look on his face and a bag in his hand. “I picked you up a few things, can’t say I packed with a formal dinner with the enemy in mind.”

Sherlock took the bag and therein laid a tin of some sort of hair pomade, a straight razor, a comb, and a few other toiletries that it was clear Hamish had not chosen himself. They were mostly English brands, for one, and mostly items that Hamish had probably never used in his life, like a shave oil and cologne. “Thank you, I was just wondering how I was going to manage a shave.”

Hamish nodded silently, sitting down on the bed, starting to remove his shoes. He stilled, and then looked up at Sherlock again. “I can go downstairs, if you’d prefer to get ready on your own. I wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re fine,” Sherlock sighed. “As long as you don’t get any ideas.”

Hamish nodded. Sherlock rubbed oil into his face and Hamish watched him, only partly interested in the action. When Sherlock began to shave, Hamish said, “I suppose you won’t reconsider taking up his offer?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly as he rinsed the blade. “This is the best way to make sure this ordeal is over and done with. If I’m there I can make sure the conversation occurs. I can take care of myself when it comes to Randall; I have dealt with men like him before. Trust me, Hamish. I realize it’s your life on the line but I must ask for you to trust me.”

Hamish nodded. “If something were to happen to you because of me, I’m not sure…”

“I understand. You bear the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Sherlock said, cutting him off. “But for just a moment stop being the one who makes sacrifices for other people. For tonight, let me make a sacrifice for you.”

Hamish’s face did something odd. It seemed to cycle through a handful of emotions at once before settling back down on neutral. “I know I cannot change your mind.” Sherlock rinsed his face, reaching for a cloth to dry his skin. Hamish cleared his throat, clenching and unclenching his hands in his lap. “May I ask you, about John?”

Sherlock stilled. He had been reaching for the tin of hair product, but he let his hand drop. He looked into the fogged mirror he had been using for his shave, and Hamish met his gaze in the reflection. “How do you know about John?” Sherlock asked, reaching again for the tin. He unscrewed the lid and reached for the comb.

“You addressed me by his name,” Hamish replied as he watched Sherlock’s every move. “This man, is he yours?”

Sherlock tried his best to hide his wince. “You don’t own other people where I’m from. He isn’t mine. But he is my friend, my best friend. I miss him very much, and on occasion you remind me of him, is all. It was a mistake, a slip of the tongue.” Sherlock set to work combing the product through his hair. It was not how he usually wore his hair, slicked down and shining with oil, but it would not look out of place.

Hamish nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as he lowered his head. “So you don’t care for anyone, then. You aren’t in love with him?”

Sherlock shook his head, turning away from the mirror. “That isn’t your business. Do you love…whoever his name is? I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you use his name. Bit suspicious, that.”

“What would you like to know? His name is Graeme. His sister is called Grace. I have told you that I am not in love with either of them, what else is there to know?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Find someone that you love, then. There’s no use being unhappy.” He started to dress. “If I’m going through the trouble to get your life spared you can at least find someone who will make you happy. Can you promise that to me, at the very least?”

Hamish shook his head a bit. “One thing at a time. I can figure out how to be happy once everything is settled. When I’m back home where I’m supposed to be. I can find someone to give me children, and perhaps I will love her. But until then, I will wait and make the best of the situation presented to me.”

Sherlock tucked his shirt into his trousers, reaching for the starched collar and bow tie. “As will I. You’ll have all of those things and I will make it back home, where I belong.”

“With John.” Hamish said. His tone was dark.

“Yes, with John,” Sherlock echoed, deftly tying the tie and going for the jacket. “Sandringham’s men should be here soon to fetch me. I’ll be back as soon as dinner is over; I don’t plan on lingering long.”

Hamish crossed to the window, peering down into the street. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered. “Here they are.”

He turned back to Sherlock, who was now fully dressed. He skipped the cologne Hamish had brought and buttoned his jacket, tugging at the sleeves of the jacket a bit. They were a little short, the jacket a little large in his chest, but it would do for the evening. He had cleaned his dress shoes the best he could and the inn staff had shined them quite nicely, so he pulled them on and straightened in the mirror to take one last look at himself. “Right, I’m off. Stay here, if Captain Randall and his men are nearby there is a chance they could be looking for you, best not give them the opportunity to find you.”

Hamish nodded. “You look very English. They’ll like you.”

“I am English,” Sherlock said with a slight grin. “And I am counting on it.”

With one final look in the mirror Sherlock left, climbing into Sandringham’s carriage and riding into the hornet’s nest.


	19. Chapter 19

When Sherlock was announced, the soldiers went quiet. The men standing around Captain Randall turned a bit.

Randall’s expression of forced pleasantry darkened as he laid eyes on Sherlock. He lifted his glass in a salute before draining it, handing off the empty glass to a passing member of serving staff. “Mr Holmes, a pleasure to see you again,” he said as he stepped forward, bowing slightly. “When Lord Sandringham said you were to be joining us I must say I was surprised. I thought you were raring to continue your journey to…France, wasn’t it? I hate to inform you that you aren’t in France quite yet.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly, reaching for a glass of wine. “I’m aware, but I couldn’t pass up the invitation of a long lost cousin of mine, could I?”

Lord Sandringham clapped his hands in delight from nearby. “Yes, didn’t you hear, Captain? He is a cousin. Isn’t it splendid?”

Jim’s laugh was low. “Mr Holmes has family everywhere, it seems. How convenient for him.”

Sherlock took a sip of his wine, ignoring Jim’s words in favour of turning to Lord Sandringham. “You have a lovely estate, I’m not sure I said so before. And I thank you for the suit, it is a good fit.”

Sandringham waved it off. “Of course, it was nothing. I am glad you could join us this evening, and I hope the company is not too grating. I know how military men can be.”

“Indeed I do,” Sherlock said with a slight smile. “I share rooms with one, in London.”

“Ah, so you know all too well,” Sandringham said with a nod. “Now, I do believe it’s time for dinner. Miller, do please ring the bell. Let’s have a seat, I am famished.”

As the Lord settled into his seat the rest of the men followed, still chatting amongst themselves. Randall managed to claim the seat directly across from Sherlock. His brass buttons glinted in the candlelight and Sherlock looked away from Jim’s bottomless black gaze.

“Captain Randall, I would like to request a brief discussion when after dinner. I can assure a nice brandy will be involved,” Sandringham said, his voice pitched for only Randall’s ears. Jim nodded, picking up his wine glass again as the serving stash delivered the first course, some sort of watercress salad. The soldiers began eating, and Sherlock shifted his attention back to Sandringham, who was surveying the table with a smile.

“Do you often host dinners for the nearby soldiers in command?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I do try to get everyone together every couple of months or so,” the Lord replied, munching on his watercress. “They are awfully busy, it can be difficult to coordinate schedules, but I feel it’s important to give the men a taste of home.” 

“I can imagine they are very grateful for it,” Sherlock replied with a nod. “But I suppose any sort of kindness is a welcome relief.”

“Lord Sandringham’s kindness in particular,” Jim added, even though he wasn’t initially part of the conversation.

Sherlock arched a brow at Jim but said nothing. He pushed away his salad, completely untouched, and held out his wine glass for a refill.

Captain Randall did not speak the rest of the meal. He glowered as his fellow captains asked Sherlock question after question about the Scots, which he was more than willing to answer, that was if he had an answer to give. Most of the questions were wildly inaccurate representations as far as Sherlock could tell, but he did his best to reign in his anger and gently correct them where they were wrong. They sat nursing their after dinner drinks, all of the food cleared away.

“They simply wish to be left to their own devices, as archaic as they may be,” Sherlock said with a tone of finality. “As I am sure you would be if someone were to come and force you to change your way of life.”

The men grumbled under their breath, but one voice rang out above the others. “Is it true that they will fuck anything that moves?” Captain Randall asked as he lit up a cigarette, eyes glowing briefly with the orange of the candle flame he used to light it. “Did any of them fuck you, Mr Holmes? I can imagine they would be quite keen for an opportunity to show an Englishman the what-for.”

“Well I never,” Lord Sandringham hissed but Sherlock shook his head at the man slightly.

“No, on both counts,” Sherlock replied, his tone carefully pleasant. “They do have such a thing as impulse control. They are human, if you had any ideas to the contrary. Just like you, Captain Randall. That is assuming that you are human, of course, a conclusion with which I have little evidence to support.”

The soldiers fell silent, and Sandringham went pale in the face. “Yes, well, I think that’s quite enough talk of the Scots,” he finally said, standing. “Gentlemen, perhaps we shall retire to the drawing room. Captain Randall, perhaps now is the time for our discussion. In my office? Please do bring your drink.”

The soldiers were more than happy to retreat into the drawing room, Sherlock not far behind. He stayed near the periphery of the room until he spied a violin on an elaborate display near a small piano, and he decided to play a few tunes for the men. Simple things, nothing to elaborate; he wished to entertain them, not bore them to tears.

After four tunes punctuated by applause and praise, Sherlock excused himself, partly to find a restroom and partly to spy on the goings-on in Lord Sandringham’s office. He walked down the hallway as quietly as he could manage. He tried a couple of doors, both of which were locked, before he went farther down the hallway. He could hear faint voiced echoing from deeper in the house but he needed a toilet more than he needed to hear an argument. The first door he came too that was unlocked was a guest bedroom, and it appeared to have an attached bathroom. He left the door open as he went inside and was thankful that Sandringham’s staff had lit the candles, else he would be fumbling in the dark. He found the restroom, relieved himself, and washed his hands in the basin there. He walked back into the bedroom, opening the window there to sit on the sill and take in deep breaths of the cool night air.

He had just closed his eyes when he heard the door to the bedroom snap shut. Sherlock’s blood ran cold. “Mr Holmes,” Jim said softly, and Sherlock turned around. “You have been devoting quite a lot of time to making my life difficult. I can’t say I appreciate it very much.”

Jim was beginning to unbutton his uniform jacket, taking slow steps deeper into the room. Sherlock stood, trying to figure out how to not end up backing himself into a corner. Randall was blocking the only way out of the room, but if he moved only slightly, perhaps he would be able to incapacitate him and make it out. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, Captain Randall. You seemed proud of it all the last we spoke, why the change of heart?”

Randall’s eye’s flashed with anger and he surged forward, bouncing Sherlock off of the wall before wrapping his hand around his neck. “Did you really think that you could save his life?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “If you don’t leave him alone you’re going to lose your captaincy. Is one Scotsman worth that?”

Jim’s hand tightened around his throat and he leaned in closer, dark eyes sliding down Sherlock’s face before settling on his lips. He leaned in closer, taking a deep breath, before drawing Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth. He bit hard, hard enough to draw blood. Sherlock drew in a shaking breath and Jim tightened his grip again. Sherlock’s vision started to black out and Jim took the opportunity to throw Sherlock to the bed.

Sherlock’s movements were sluggish as he gasped for air. He tried kicking and pushing Jim away but soon his trousers were around his ankles and Jim had him flipped back onto his stomach. “If you scream I will slit your throat,” Captain Randall growled as he started working on his own trousers.

Sherlock’s eyes were trained on the door, hoping that someone would come looking for either of them before…

Jim’s hands were on the swell of his backside and Sherlock gasped, pulling away. “Be still,” Randall snapped, and dragged him closer by his hips. Then Jim’s hands were gone, and there was a loud thump from behind him, followed by the sound of a body crumpling to the ground.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” a rush of relief overtook him at the voice and he started tugging up his trousers. His hands were shaking badly and Hamish began to help him. “It’s fine, I’m taking you out of here. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m fine,” he replied. His voice was low and rasping. “How did you …”

“I followed you, and before you argue I made sure I wasn’t seen,” Hamish said softly, helping Sherlock to his feet. “We’re going back out this window, it’s an easy out. Can you walk?”

Sherlock nodded, walking over to the window and hoisting himself up and out. Hamish followed him quickly and helped him onto the back of his waiting horse. “He’ll wake up,” Sherlock said as Hamish climbed into the saddle. “You should have killed him.”

Hamish snapped the reigns and they raced away. Sherlock clung to Hamish tightly, entire boding shaking, as if he were suffering from hypothermia. He turned to look back at the manor house. It was illuminated and it didn’t look like there was anyone following them, but he couldn’t be sure.

They made it back to the inn and Sherlock had to have Hamish’s help undressing for the night. “Thank you,” Sherlock said softly as Hamish soon followed him in bed. “Thank you, I… I think it worked, I think Sandringham granted the pardon. Captain Randall was angry, he…”

“Shh,” Hamish said, resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. “Just rest. We can speak more on the matter in the morning. And we can wake up, go to the standing stones, and you can be on your way, alright? You can leave and never have to deal with Captain Randall again. You’ll be safe.”

Sherlock nodded, curling into himself as he closed his eyes.

But he couldn’t sleep, and he was fairly certain Hamish didn’t either. 

They were both lying on their backs when the sun came up. Sherlock’s body was tight with tension, and his throat was sore. He was sure it was bruised, but he didn’t want to check the mirror to make sure. He climbed out of bed and dressed in his trousers. His shirt had been ruined by blood and rough treatment, so he kept the tunic. He pulled on his coat and put on his shoes.

Hamish had climbed out of bed soon after and was dressed. When Sherlock was finished dressing Hamish was standing by the door, holding out Sherlock’s scarf. “I took the best care that I could,” he said softly.

Sherlock stepped closer, taking the scarf and draping it around his neck, doubling it so that his bruises would be covered. “Thank you,” Sherlock said, studying the sadness that carved lines in Hamish’s face. “Are we…are we ready to go, then?”

Hamish nodded, clearing his throat and opening the door to the room. “Come on,” he said, leading Sherlock down the stairs and outside. “I assumed you wouldn’t want breakfast, you would rather be on your way, right?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t really… I can’t stomach the thought of food at the moment. The stones aren’t that far, can’t we walk? I would prefer that to riding,”

Hamish nodded, rerouting from the stables towards the edge of town, where the standing stones could be seen in the distance. They walked in silence for a bit, Sherlock’s head lowered. Hamish led the way through the trees, and after a while he said, “You weren’t… you weren’t willingly with Randall, were you?”

Sherlock stopped. “Are you seriously asking me that? I’ve got bruises on my neck, and you’re asking if I let him do it willingly?”

Hamish walked a few more paces before he realized that Sherlock was no longer following. “I was only asking…”

Sherlock stormed past him, not willing to listen to him anymore. “You were asking because you are jealous, and you are upset I won’t have sex with you but would have sex with him. You realize how utterly disgusting that is, that you would think I would…”

“I care about you, why is that difficult for you to understand?”  Hamish snapped. 

Sherlock whipped around. “You care about me? If you cared about me you would stop second-guessing everything I do! You would trust me. Spare me.” He turned back around, pressing on through the woods, fuming. “There’s no point in caring about me, I’m leaving.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I do,” Hamish grumbled.

They broke through the treeline and Sherlock rushed forward. Hamish stood back, watching him with poorly concealed confusion. Sherlock circled the perimeter of the stones before stepping in the middle, inspecting each stone one by one. They still looked absolutely ordinary, every one of them. He leaned in closer to the stone that had brought him here. No humming, no sparks, nothing.

He took a steadying breath, then another. He then reached out tentatively, laying his hand on the stone. He closed his eyes, waiting for something to happen…

…But nothing did. He opened his eyes again, frowning at the stone. He drew his hand back and laid it on the stone again. No change. He curled his hand into a fist and punched the stone before collapsing in front of it, both hands resting on the stone.

He cried silently, his forehead pressed against the stone, knees wet from the morning dew.  Soon he heard whispers, somehow right in his ear but also far away. He raised his head, looking around him, but there was no one. Hamish wasn’t even in sight. “Hello?” Sherlock called softly, climbing to his feet. “Who’s there?”

The whispers were difficult to decipher, and he listened even more intently. “John?” Sherlock called, and the whispers went silent. “John!” Sherlock repeated a bit louder.

A whisper came through, louder than the rest, and Sherlock felt like all of the air had been forced out of his lungs, like a punch in the gut.

The whisper… well, the whisper sounded familiar.

And the whisper said _“Sherlock?”_

                               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have wrangled this into being finished in 30 chapters. I will try to hold myself to that. 
> 
> And be prepared for this to vary greatly from the show/books because Sherlock is going home, dang it.


	20. Chapter 20

“John, haven’t you searched this place a million times? I’m not sure there is anything else to be found,” Greg grumbled, standing back up with a groan. “And you’re sure this is the direction he went?”

“No, I’m not sure, but I know I saw him walking off in this direction,” John sighed. “Come on, we might as well head back. They mentioned bringing in search dogs sometime this week, perhaps they will find something. Who knows anymore, I don’t know what else Mycroft expects me to do. Did he give you any other information?”

Greg shrugged, leaning against one of the stones. “No, just that it’s better to stay here close by then be back in London. He’s worried, of course. About you and about Sherlock.”

“Yeah, well, I’m fucking fantastic, you can pass that on for me,” John said, shoving his hands in his pockets with force. “I feel so useless, wandering around and worrying and not able to do anything. When I see him again I’m going to kill him, I swear.”

Greg chuckled, watching John. “You won’t. If you were going to kill him you would have done it when he popped back up after two years. Then where would we be?”

“Not looking for his sorry arse in Scotland,” John sighed. “This was supposed to be an easy case. The only reason I spent time talking him into it was my family came from this area. There is land nearby that was owned and farmed by my ancestors for generations. It was sold off years ago, but still. I’ve always wanted to visit and I thought it would be nice to bring Sherlock here.”

Greg arched a brow. “You thought he would enjoy traipsing through Scotland?”

“I know, it was stupid. But I thought…” John shook his head. “Never mind. Another missed opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what?” Greg asked. “Were you going to tell him?”

John tensed slightly, looking over to Greg. “I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah, I was planning to. I thought it was about time. It’s been a long time since everything with Mary, I thought we were…well. There went that chance.”

Greg nodded, pushing off the stone to stand back up proper. “Let’s just hope that you get another chance, yeah?”

John started to reply, but he heard something. It was faint, and for a second he thought he had imagined it. He looked around, holding out a hand towards Greg, who had started to say something. “Did you hear that?” John whispered, and Greg shook his head in confusion.

There, again. It sounded like someone was calling his name. He whipped around, and Greg’s eyes were wide.

“Sherlock?” John yelled, listening for a response.

There was nothing for a moment, and then…

_“JOHN!”_

“Where is it coming from?” Greg asked softly, looking around them. He set off in the direction from which he thought the voice had come and John stood still, shocked into stillness.  

“Sherlock, where are you?” John asked, his voice echoing through the trees.

There wasn’t a response this time, only a rising caucus of whispers that seemed to be coming from all around John. Greg was nowhere to be found and John felt the voices pressing in around him. Suddenly Sherlock’s voice loud again, rising above all of the other voices.

_“Hamish, no!”_

Then all at once there was silence. Complete silence. John’s heart was racing and he was out of breath.

“I can’t find him John, I can’t hear him anymore,” Greg’s voice was close, somewhere to John’s back.

“Hamish,” John muttered, and when Greg stepped back into the stone circle John started back toward the village. “Come on, we need to go to the library. He said Hamish; did you hear him say that?”

“John, wait…”

“That’s a family name, one that’s as old as the family itself,” John pressed on, ignoring Greg’s interjection.

“And what do you expect to find at the library? That your family are wizards and Sherlock’s been transported back in time or something?” Greg asked, his tone incredulous. “What are you even going to look for?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. You can look at the myths of the standing stones, and I can look at my family history, see if there’s any indicator of…”

Greg waited for John to finish that sentence. When the end didn’t come as quickly as it should have, he added, “Of what? Of strangers in a strange land? Of a prissy bloke who knew too much who just appeared one day? John, you know this all sounds mad. It’s not possible.”

John stopped, waiting on Greg to catch up with him. “You were there, Greg. You heard the voices, just like I did. Voices coming from nowhere, from the stones. That’s impossible too. So we work with what we have; we have Hamish.”

Greg pressed on with a sigh. “I hate research,” he said. “So I’m looking for what, for standing stones that cause time travel? Great, just want I wanted to do with my afternoon. Sherlock better be glad you love him so much, else he’d be stuck wherever the hell he is forever. Imagine Sherlock without indoor plumbing, he’d have a fit.”

John couldn’t help his laugh, and Greg didn’t hesitate to join in.

They were soon at the library. As most of the town’s history and been digitized ages ago to prevent its loss, a quick search soon pointed John in the right direction. Hamish MacArthur Watson, the father of John’s too-many-greats-to-remember grandfather, was taken into British custody at the standing stones, along with a travelling companion. The companion was not mentioned by name, and he could find no other mention of the person. The record went straight on to describing his release, his difficult time adjusting to life back on the family farm, and his eventual marriage which produced one son named William. Hamish himself died on the battlefield less than three years later fighting for the Jacobites, but that was the end of it.

John frowned at the words. Perhaps… but no. It seemed impossible. Sherlock couldn’t have been taken to another bloody time; that was _Doctor Who_ levels of insane. Sherlock couldn’t have been there when Hamish Watson was taken into custody. He couldn’t be the travelling companion who was arrested with him…

John’s stomach twisted and he clicked out of the pages, leaning back in his seat.

But it must have been the truth. It was too close to be a coincidence.

He only hoped that Greg found some sort of magic spell or ritual to get Sherlock back, especially if he had been taken into custody with a Scotsman who was a part of the rebellion. He’d do a naked blood sacrifice if he needed to. Hell, if he needed to round the entire town into a naked blood sacrifice he’d do it.

He would do anything.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off-screen sexual violence, and descriptions of the aftermath. Discretion is advised!

Hamish had apologized to Sherlock over and over on their journey to… wherever the British were taking them. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say to him to make him feel better, and he wasn’t sure what to say to himself to make it better either.

He had heard John’s voice, that much was certain.  He had heard him call his name, which meant that maybe there was a chance that he could find a way back through if he could get out of British custody.

He had been listening closely, waiting to hear more from John, when he heard Hamish yell his name. He had turned around in time to see a soldier pull out his pistol and level it at Hamish’s head. “Hamish, no!” Sherlock had shouted, and Hamish froze, holding his hands in the air. Sherlock held up his hands as well, and soon they were bundled away by the army.

They were tossed into separate cells in the makeshift prison the British had erected, and Sherlock settled down on a dry corner of the cell, wrapping his arms around his knees. He had listened to the footsteps of the soldiers as they delivered Hamish to his cell, so Sherlock knew there were two empty cells that separated them.  What use that information was he didn’t know, but it was good knowing it anyway. 

“Hamish, are you alright?” Sherlock called, closing his eyes to listen. He could hear the other man’s heavy breathing, even from this far away.

“Yes, of course,” Hamish replied, though his voice sounded reedy.

Sherlock didn’t know what else to say, so he fell silent again.

Soldiers patrolled the corridor with regularity, but nothing changed for a while. It was only when the soldiers were called to attention that Sherlock stood as well, inching closer to the entrance to his cell.

“At ease soldiers, dismissed.”

Sherlock cursed under his breath and retreated again. Slow footsteps echoed down the corridor, getting closer and closer, until they stopped. Captain Randall stood in front of his cell, twirling a ring of keys on his finger. “Hello again, Captain,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding far more confident than he felt.

Jim made a show of sorting through the keys, finally settling on one. He unlocked the door to Sherlock’s cell and threw it open. “You, Mr Holmes, are free to go.”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“Go, now,” Captain Randall said, taking a step back. “I require some time alone with Mr Watson. There are some very serious charges levelled against him, I’m afraid, charges that may result in his execution. We have quite a lot to talk about, him and I. There may be a way for us to negotiate something to make sure he doesn’t die, but that’s between us. I believe there are a rather vocal group of Scotsman in the nearby village that would be more than happy to see you on your way.”

The tax collecting group. Sherlock wondered how they knew that he and Hamish had been arrested in the first place, but he didn’t want to ask Randall. Instead he nodded, stepping out of his cell. “Can I speak to Hamish before…”

“I’m afraid not,” Captain Randall said softly, clicking his tongue. “You best be on your way, before I change my mind. I am prone to changing my mind.” His hand snapped out, grabbing hold on Sherlock’s chin, dragging his face closer by force to look at him closer. “You have no idea how lucky you were before, Mr Holmes. Unfortunately Hamish Watson will not be so lucky.”  

With that, Jim pushed Sherlock’s face away and Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He left the prison the way Jim had come. He was given Hamish’s horse and he mounted her without a second thought, setting off in the direction of a dark grey plume of smoke.

The fire told him where the people were, and he needed people to help him.

 

The MacKenzies were proud to see him, which was a surprise. It had seemed like weeks ago that they had been travelling in a group together, before he had been taken by the British and Hamish had followed.

The treasurer clapped him on the shoulder and said, “What’s the plan, then?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the farmland that bracketed the small village. “Give me a moment and I’ll come up with one.”

“Or,” one of the barrel-chested Mackenzies interrupted, and Sherlock wished for a moment that he had spent the time learning the names of these men, the men who cared so much about Hamish and now, by extension, him. “Or we can ask the farmers to loan us some mules and storm the prison.”

Sherlock nodded, pointing at the man. “Yes, what he said.”

An older man who was missing fingers and teeth nodded. “Right, let’s see what we can round up for our stampede. Everyone knock on doors.”

The men all scattered, and Sherlock set off in search of a door that hadn’t been visited.

 

Some of the farmers were hesitant to assist them, but others were more than willing to lend their animals to their crusade. They ended up with near 30 mules and cattle. The sun was beginning to set and the animals were all milling together. Sherlock and the men—whose names turned out to be Corag, Branan, Finnian, Niall and Osgar—were joined by a handful of farmers bearing torches to help light the way and guide the eventual stampede to its intended location.

With a whistle from one of the farmers, the animals were off. The sound of their hooves was loud to Sherlock’s ears, and he was afraid both that they could not keep the animals running in the right direction and that the soldiers would be able to hear their approach. They had darkness on their side, but what did that mean when the ground was shaking and the animals were crying loud enough to be heard for miles around?

Sherlock placed himself near the back of the stampede. He was the only one who knew where Hamish was, and he desperately hoped that the cattle would be strong enough to break though the bars.

The ride back to the prison seemed to take ages, but soon enough they were cresting the hill that brought the building into view. “Speed them up lads!” One of the farmers called and as a group they urged their horses to a faster gallop. The stampede ran faster as well, and they advanced all the more quickly.

They heard soldiers screaming when they drew close enough to the gates, but the momentum of the animals was such that they could not be stopped. They barrelled through the gates and through the doors of the makeshift prison, and Sherlock knew that there were men trampled to death underfoot. He couldn’t find it in himself to care and rode on.

By the time he made it into the cellblock proper most of the animals had barrelled out of the back doors; only the MacKenzies remained behind to take care of the remaining soldiers. Sherlock dismounted from his horse and ran to the cell that they had brought Hamish to, and the sight that greeted him made his stomach heave. Had he eaten something that day, he would have been sick.

The door to the cell had indeed been forced open by what he assumed was a steer’s horns. The metal was twisted, and Randall was lying on the ground completely naked. He had a head wound of some kind, Sherlock didn’t care to look too closely, but he stepped over his naked body to where Hamish lay on a small cot, shivering. His back was to Sherlock and he, too, was naked. Blood stained the skin between his thighs and his body was littered with bruises. His scars seemed more livid in the red candlelight. Sherlock wanted to reach out to touch him but knew it wasn’t the best idea.

“Hamish? Come on, let’s get you back to the MacKenzies. They’re going to take us back, yeah? And after you rest you can go home. Wouldn’t that be nice, to see your sister. To be back on your land again?” Sherlock fell silent, watching for some sort of sign of recognition of his words.

“Hamish,” Sherlock repeated, taking a step closer to him. He took off his coat and draped it over his body. “Here, we need to go, quickly. Randall could wake up at any minute.”

That seemed to spur something in him and Hamish sat up, holding tight to the coat that hid his nudity. He was still shaking and his eyes were swollen from tears, but he nodded.

“Can you walk?” Sherlock asked, and he tried not to mirror Hamish’s wince when the other man stood and took his first wobbling steps. “We’ll have to ride, but it won’t be far, and we can go slowly,” he added. “I’m sorry.”

Hamish shook his head slightly, reaching for the bars to steady himself for a moment. Sherlock couldn’t imagine this man being able to make it onto the back of the horse but he managed, though he held on tightly to Sherlock’s middle as they road. His fists would tighten in Sherlock’s tunic rhythmically, and he would occasionally make a soft sound of pain which made Sherlock feel sick all over again.

They made it back to town as the farmers were still trying to wrangle their cattle back into their fields, but Sherlock didn’t stop to help. He took Hamish to the MacKenzie camp, helped him down off of the horse and settled him on one of the bed rolls. He gathered up all of the blankets—he was sure none of the other men would argue—and covered Hamish’s trembling form with them. He built up the banked fire, before finally settling down beside Hamish.

His blue eyes were open and glassy. Sherlock had noticed that he had been watching his every move, but looking into his eyes now it didn’t seem he had actually processed any of them. He blinked, and a tear broke free. Sherlock sighed, looking at the fire. Staring into the flames hurt less then looking into the utter destruction that was written on Hamish’s face.

Eventually Hamish’s blank eyes slid shut and he slept. Sometime after the MacKenzies returned from helping the farmers settle back in for the night, Hamish stopped trembling. Sometime after the MacKenzies began snoring, one of Hamish’s hands snaked out from under the blankets and wrapped around Sherlock’s right hand, holding it tightly.

Sherlock held it back, just as tightly, and he kept the fire going all night.

He didn’t sleep.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief descriptions of violence at the beginning of this chapter.

Early the next morning, when the men were packing up camp and preparing for the journey home, Sherlock helped Hamish to the nearest body of running water. Osgar, the barrel-chested Mackenzie, had managed to recover Hamish’s pack, and Sherlock had smiled to himself as he dug out the unfamiliar tartan, the tartan that must be Hamish’s. That and a tunic were slung over Sherlock’s arm as he helped steady Hamish’s steps.

Hamish had abandoned Sherlock’s jacket in favour of one of the blankets, and had simply nodded when Sherlock suggested he might like a bath before they set off.

The water was cool, but Hamish didn’t hesitate to wade out into it, waist deep. A look of relief washed over his face, so perhaps the water was doing more for him than simply washing away the evidence of Randall’s depravity.

“Do you need help?” Sherlock asked from the shore, and Hamish shook his head, beginning to wash himself in earnest. His hands were only shaking slightly, and he made quick work of it. He slid underwater for a bit and Sherlock watched like a hawk until he surfaced again, pushing back his hair before scrubbing flecks of blood from his beard.

With one last rinse of his face Hamish began wading out of the water, picking up the blanket to use to dry himself. Some of the rivulets of water that ran down his thighs were tinged pink with blood still, but that may have been because he still had a few open wounds on the inside of his body.

Sherlock’s stomach tried to heave but since it was still empty, nothing came up.

Hamish waved off his attempts to help him dress, though he did smile slightly when he saw his tartan. He fastened the buckle with surprisingly steady hands and gathered up the blanket, turning back to Sherlock with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Come on, let’s hope we didn’t miss breakfast,” Sherlock said softly, leading the way back up to their campsite.

The men had prepared what amounted to a feast. The farmers had delivered fresh eggs, cured meat and warm bread baked by their wives, happy as they were to have the British prison destroyed. The MacKenzies were passing around a bottle of wine as well, each taking a swig before passing it to the next man. Hamish stepped in, snatched the bottle from Corag and took a long swig before handing it back to the man.

Hamish ate well, considering. Sherlock’s stomach was still in knots so he had to force down his crust of bread.

After the food had been eaten and the wine was long gone, the men were ready to go. They tied the wagon to the horses and set off, two of the men riding out ahead while the others lagged behind, Hamish’s horse had been allowed a bit of a respite as she was tied to the back of the wagon, rider-less and enjoying the leisurely trot.

“Does she have a name?” Sherlock asked Hamish, who was lying back down, curled in the foetal position again.

“Who?” Hamish’s voice was scratchy and low, but Sherlock was relieved to hear it again. 

“Your horse. Does she have a name?”

Hamish shook his head slightly. “I haven’t… no, she doesn’t have a name.”

Sherlock stretched out his legs, studying the horse for a moment. “She deserves one.”

Hamish sighed, closing his eyes. “Feel free to choose one, then.”

Sherlock promised himself than when they got back to Castle Leoch he would search every book in the library until he found the perfect name for her.

 

The ride took three days. By the end Hamish was much steadier on his feet and had gained back some colour in his cheeks. He was still quieter than before, still flinched away from any touch he did not instigate, but he was on the road to recovery. Even Sherlock felt relief when Castle Leoch came into view.

Hamish was the first off of the wagon and he held out a hand to steady Sherlock as he climbed down. Sherlock took it without hesitation, offering him a soft smile as thanks.

No sooner had their feet touched the ground than two people rushed forward. The young woman held back while the man drew Hamish into a tight embrace. Sherlock’s eyes slid from the young man’s face to the woman, and he noted that they held similar features. Both were willowy and fair, and the woman, Grace, had large brown eyes that lighted on Hamish as if he had hung the moon.

Ah, so the fiancée. Which made the man still clinging to Hamish the brother, Graeme.

Hamish eventually extricated himself from the hug and the woman stepped forward, holding him by his forearms as she studied his face, tears in her eyes.  “ _Fáilte, fear-céile_.”

Sherlock set to work unpacking the cart, feeling like an intruder in this tearful reunion. He shouldered Hamish’s pack before gathering the blankets, which he intended to deliver to the laundrywomen. He set off towards the castle but was soon intercepted. 

Graeme’s face was bright with fury as he tugged Sherlock’s arm back, forcing him to drop the blankets. “This is your fault _Sassenach_ ,” he snarled. His accent seemed thicker than Hamish’s somehow, but perhaps that was simply because he was more familiar with Hamish’s voice. “You’ve caused him all this pain. They should have never helped you.”

Sherlock shook his head as he gathered the blankets again. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, Graeme, but I did my best to make sure that Hamish wasn’t hurt. I failed, clearly, but…” Sherlock cleared his throat. The words he meant to say soured on his tongue. “He has been granted a pardon by the Duke of Sandringham. The British will be too busy dealing with the fallout of their prison being overthrown by farmers to come after him, and if they do there will be consequences. Captain Randall may never be in command again, especially if they discovered him in the state we left him. Hamish no longer has to hide, and he is free to live the life he chooses. If that life does not include you, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Graeme’s jaw clenched as he surged forward again, looking to all the world that he was planning an attack. But he didn’t. He glanced back, where Hamish and Grace were still speaking, and he stepped back from Sherlock. “If you are the cause of my sister’s ruin I will kill you, make no mistake.”

“I have done nothing but save Hamish’s life. Your sister would have been ruined had he died, would she not?”

Graeme clenched his hands into fists at his side before he spat “Leave him alone, _Sassenach_ ,” and stormed back into the direction of the gathered clan.

Sherlock was still angry after he dropped the blankets off with the laundrywomen. He did not want to return to the castle just yet, so instead he set off in the direction of the village. If nothing else, he wouldn’t mind visiting Gallis again.

When he arrived, Gallis was cooking on one side of the room and on the other side she seemed to be running some sort of experiment. She didn’t have time to throw a cloth over it before he came in, and her face turned white as he studied the mould she was growing. “Penicillin,” Sherlock said, fixing his gaze on her. “Where are you from?”

Gallis’ look of horror soon turned into one of sly glee. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked as she returned to the pot of what appeared to be a stew.

“You aren’t from this time, and neither am I. Where are you from? How did you get here?” Sherlock followed her to snatch the spoon out of her hands, tossing it aside to hold her by the shoulders. “Do you know how to get back?”

Gallis’ eyes widened a bit as he shook her. “I… it doesn’t matter where I’m from, only that I’m here. And as for going back…” she sighed. “I’ve nothing worth going back to, have I? Why else would I stay here, knowing what’s coming?”

“But do you know how?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

She shrugged. “You come through when the moon be full, and that’s when you return.”

He dropped his hands from her shoulders, heart thundering in his ears. “How long until the moon is full?” he asked.

She laughed, spooning them both out helpings of the stew, holding one out for him. “Come on, you must eat something. You’re thin as a rail.”

He took the bowl but pressed her again. “When is the moon full again, Gallis?”

“Do you not pay the sky any mind?” she asked him with a disapproving shake of the head. “No wonder you were stupid enough to touch a stone on the day of a full moon. Everyone knows that.”

“Gallis…”

“Alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. You’ve got three nights before the moon be full again. Be at the stones, touch the one that brought you here, and ask nicely to be returned. Others who have come have been returned without incident.” She took a sip of the broth in her bowl. “Will you ever return here, do you think? Time passes strangely if you do. Sometimes the stones bring you to where you wish to be, other times… well, you never know, do you?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, sipping from his own bowl. The food was good, and he told her so. “Why are you growing penicillin?” he asked. “You know sooner or later they will grow suspicious.”

“Not if I keep saving their children,” Gallis said with a shrug. “They will do anything to keep their children safe. And the more men survive simple illnesses the more likely they are to survive the war. I don’t know if it will make a difference in the long run, but it’s worth a try. They deserve a chance.”

Sherlock nodded, not sure what else to say. They ate in silence for a bit before he asked. “How many others have come?”

Gallis gathered their bowls. “Oh, around three, and there will be more. One was killed, and the others…they eventually went home. They all found the experience rather spiritual and charming, though I suppose you won’t feel quite the same way.”

Sherlock couldn’t help his snort of laughter. “Three nights,” Sherlock repeated. “And Craigh na Dun is at least a day’s ride, top speed.”

Gallis nodded, returning to her mould. “Aye. Not much time.”

And for the first time, Sherlock was hesitant to leave so soon.

Bidding Gallis farewell, he started back to the castle. The sun was beginning to set and he was dead on his feet from exhaustion. There was a celebration going on in the dining hall that held the promise of going well into the night, but Sherlock mounted the stairs, going instead to the room in which he had stayed before. He pushed open the door to find Hamish there, lounging on the bed half asleep.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, by way of greeting. Hamish’s eyes snapped open and he sat up quickly.

“Ah, I was waiting for you, and you didn’t come, so…” Hamish’s ears coloured, the same way that John’s did when he was embarrassed. He scratched at his beard for something to do. “I…I wanted to thank you. For everything.”

“There is no need,” Sherlock said, and his voice sounded pained to his own ears. He settled down on the edge of the bed after shedding his coat, and he lowered his face into his hands. “I have… there is something that I must tell you, and you have to promise to not think me mad, or a witch.”

“Warlock,” Hamish corrected with a slight grin that Sherlock could not mirror. Hamish’s face melted back into concern quickly.

“Two nights from now I have to be at Craign na Dun. The moon will be full, and only then will I be able to return home.” Sherlock looked over at Hamish, who nodded sternly.

“Yes, to London.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “No, not… well yes, to London, but to London in the 21st century. I’m from the future. I’m… I don’t know how to explain it, except that Scotland has a sort of magic that nowhere else does, and I… I got caught up in it.”

Hamish looked far more concerned than he looked confused, which seemed to be a good sign. “I have heard tales of the like happening,” he finally said. “Men disappear, only to come back saying they were taken by strange folk.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “So you’re going quite far away then. And John, he’s… he is there as well.”

Sherlock nodded. “I called you by his name because he... he is your blood. An ancestor. There is a very strong family resemblance. I think I was brought to you for a reason.”

Hamish clasped his hands together in front of him, lacing his fingers together. “You weren’t brought to me,” he finally said, his voice bordering on anger.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, not sure what to say. He reached out tentatively to lay a hand on Hamish’s shoulder. He looked at first as though he was planning on shrugging the hand away, but he didn’t. All at once Sherlock realized that Hamish was crying, silently, and his heart ached. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, his own voice soft.

“Ach, it’s my own heart that should be sorry,” Hamish said, wiping away his tears furiously before standing. “I’ll ride with you, of course. Make sure you make it to the stones safely. I owe you that, at least.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I do,” Hamish said, his tone leaving no room for further argument. “Tomorrow I plan to ride to my family’s land, let my sister know that I can return at last. From there… from there we can go to Craigh na Dun. We could be there by the full moon’s nightfall if we leave with the sun. Would that… is that agreeable?”

Sherlock nodded once, unable to look at Hamish.

“This way you can visit my true home before…” Hamish waved a hand, unable to put voice to the words. Sherlock blinked, and was surprised to find a tear rolling down his cheek.  He didn’t wipe it away, but let it run its course down his cheek. “Good night, _Sassenach_ ,” he finally said, crossing to the door. “Rest well.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, Sherlock was surprised by the hitching sob that his deep breath turned into. He lay down on the bed and screwed his eyes shut, trying to lock away the sadness in a room deep in his mind palace.

Try as he might, he couldn’t keep it at bay.  

 


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock didn’t sleep. He packed his things and took the bag to the door, wanting to be ready to leave whenever Hamish was. He wanted to give Hamish as much time with his sister as possible before they had to continue their journey. And Hamish… well, he wanted him to be able to show Sherlock everything he wished to show him while they were there.

Sherlock went back upstairs to the library. He picked up a few books in search of a name for Hamish’s horse and found a couple of good options. He would simply have to use them and see which she responded to. He reshelved the books and noticed that the violin was where he had left it. He rosined the bow before drawing it across the strings. With a few adjustments the violin was in tune, and almost by instinct he began to play the piece of music he had written John for his wedding. The piece of music in which he had poured every feeling he had ever had for John.

His eyes were closed as he played the piece by heart, his fingers taking on a life of their own.

He let the last note fade away naturally, and he lowered the instrument with a sigh.

“I didn’t know you could play.” Sherlock looked up and smiled at Hamish, who stood in the doorway wearing his family’s tartan with his hair pulled back and tied with a length of leather. He looked younger than he had in days, the heavy lines in his face softened by optimism. It may have been forced somewhat, but Sherlock was grateful that he was making an effort. It made the prospect of leaving slightly less difficult.

“Since I was very young, yes,” Sherlock said with a nod. “I learned the violin and my brother learned the piano.”

Hamish quirked a brow. “You’ve a brother? I would have guessed you had no siblings.”

“To be fair, I do try my best to forget he exists,” Sherlock said as he put the violin away.

Hamish’s laugh was genuine, and he studied Sherlock’s face with such open affection that it brought forth Sherlock’s guilt anew. “I thought perhaps we could miss breakfast and be on our way. I am sure there will be food enough to eat when we arrive.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s fine with me. Have you bid everyone farewell?”

Hamish shrugged. “Everyone who I wish to.”

“Grace and Graeme?”

Hamish’s expression was artfully blank. “I suspect a clean break will be best.”

“Hamish, I know she cares very deeply for you,” Sherlock sighed. “You should tell her goodbye, at the very least. She would be devastated if you disappeared again.”

He lowered his head slightly, shame evident on his face. “Of course, as you say. I will do so before we leave.”

“I’ll prepare your horse,” Sherlock said, brushing by him and starting downstairs. He gathered their things before setting off toward the stable, where Hamish’s fine mare was eating oats in the outdoor paddock. She made a huffing sound and Sherlock shook his head at her slightly, going to get Hamish’s saddle and a thick tartan blanket to ensure she didn’t get any sores from the ride. She held still for him as he loaded their gear and made sure everything was secure.

He only caught himself when he was smoothing his hand over her flank. He had developed a sort of affection for this animal, how bizarre. She sniggered at him, shaking her mane, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No need to be smug.”

She returned to her oats, and he set to work testing out names for the horse.

By the time Hamish came outside the sun was well out and Sherlock had settled on a name. “Hamish, meet Brianna, your horse.”

“You’ve named her then?” Hamish asked, and Brianna scraped at the ground with her hoof.

Sherlock nodded. “We had a discussion, and she likes that name the best.”

Hamish shook his head in bemusement and climbed into the saddle, holding out a hand for Sherlock.

“Alright then Brianna, let’s go home,” Hamish said, bumping the horse in the sides with his heels.

That was all the inspiration she needed to start their journey.

 

Sherlock didn’t ask Hamish about Grace. He most definitely didn’t ask about Graeme. Instead they road in silence, one of Sherlock’s arms looped around Hamish’s waist. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he watched the passing landscape, and he reluctantly conceded that he could understand why people found it beautiful, even if he didn’t. There was a rolling desolation here, green hills and expanses of nothing that made one seem miniscule in comparison. It put things into perspective, he supposed.

He stopped that train of thought before he suddenly decided that he would like to buy a cottage in a place like this, keep bees and watch John putter about in a garden. He could not abide by such nonsense.

They passed a handful of farms, some that were grazing sheep and other livestock while others were being farmed for various crops. They stopped over halfway there to let Brianna get a drink, and Sherlock walked up the crest of a hill and shielded his eyes as he looked onward.

“There, do you see that stone fence? That’s the Watson land. That’s where I am Laird,” Hamish said, pointing into the distance. Sure enough, Sherlock could make out a stone border in the far distance. It was hardly visible from where he stood, but it was there. The pride in Hamish’s voice was evident.

“We’re close,” Sherlock said, looking over to Hamish.

“Aye, not long now,” Hamish said with a nod. “We should be on our way if we want to make lunchtime.”

Sherlock nodded, turning to start down the hill. Brianna neighed when he saw them, and Hamish pat her shoulder before climbing back into the saddle. Sherlock followed shortly.

 

The Watson home was not as grand as Castle Leoch. It was a plain stone cottage with a number of out buildings. There was a mill built over a nearby river, and chickens pecking away in front of the cottage.

Hamish led Brianna into the small paddock, where she sniffed the draughthorses within. Sherlock took his pack from Hamish and waited for the man before they began the short trek to the cottage.

They made it halfway to the front door when a short, weather-worn woman stormed out of the house, followed shortly by a taller woman with curly red hair and a worried expression.

Hamish’s approach quickened. Sherlock hung back, not wanting to interfere in what he knew would be an emotional reunion. It wasn’t long until a child, no more than four and tow-headed, came out of the house. “Ailith,” Hamish called.

“Hamish?” the stout woman replied, and now that they were closer Sherlock could see the resemblance. They looked very similar around the eyes and the hard lines of the mouth. She was older than her brother, and years of hard work had taken its toll on her body. “ _A chiall beannaich mise, bráthair_.”

Hamish drew her into a tight hug, which she returned in kind. They clung to each other until Ailith pulled back far enough to hit him. “How dare you not at least send word that you were alive? We thought you dead.”

“Not dead,” Hamish said softly, moving on to draw the tall red-haired woman into a hug. “Gavina, you have been taking care of her, yes?”

“Of course, her and the bairn,” Gavina replied, sliding her hands through his hair as she studied his face. She was crying openly, her hands shaking. “You look the same. How did you manage that?”

Hamish shook his head slightly, taking her hand in both of his for a moment before seeking out the child. “And who is this?”

The little boy hid behind Ailith’s skirts, and she sighed. “He’s shy, not sure where he got that,” she said. “This is your nephew. He has your name. His father died…three year ago, I think? You would have hated him, I’m sure.”

Hamish swallowed thickly. “He isn’t Blackjack Jim’s?” he asked, anger tinging his voice.

Ailith shoved him in the chest, her face red with anger. “How dare you ask me that question? Get that thought out of your head right now, we’ll not speak of that devil.”

Hamish nodded, kneeling down to peek around Ailith’s skirts. The boy had his fingers shoved into his mouth. “Hello there,” he said softly to the boy. “I’m called Hamish as well. But you may call me whatever you like.”

“He doesn’t speak much,” Gavina said softly. “Uncharacteristically quiet, especially for your sister’s child.” It was only then that any of them seemed to take notice of Sherlock. It was Gavina, and her brow furrowed slightly as she took in the sight of him.

“Hello,” Sherlock said as he took a step forward. Hamish stood again. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. Hamish, he’s seeing to it that I make it to Craigh na Dun tomorrow.”

“He’s the reason I could come back,” Hamish said. “He got my charges dropped. I’m free.”

Gavina’s smile grew wide as she surged forward to draw him into a hug. “Then welcome,” she said softly. “And thank you. We missed him greatly.” Sherlock hugged her back for a moment, until she pulled away. “Now you both come in, we were about to have lunch. After lunch I can make up Innis’ room for you, Sherlock, and Hamish yours are just the same as before. The bairn can sleep with us, he usually does anyway.”

Sherlock nodded, watching Hamish for any sign that this was news to him. Hamish only nodded, so clearly his sister’s ‘maid’ was more than that, and had been since before Hamish had to leave. He wondered briefly about the man who had fathered Innis, but he didn’t feel it appropriate to ask.

He was steered to a seat at the table to Hamish’s right. Gavina sat beside him with Little Hamish in her lap, while Ailith sat on Hamish’s other side.

The food was distributed and Hamish had taken two hearty bites of his lamb stew before he cleared his throat. “So… what of this husband? You always swore that you would never marry, not unless…” he motioned to Gavina with his spoon.

“Ah, well…” Ailith flushed, reaching for her cup. “There was a year where the fields yielded nothing. Gavina and I, we were going to starve, so we came up with a plan. I married him and he guaranteed us food to last through the season, until our fields were no longer fallow. He was a great help while he was here, and Hamish came not long after. Vina always wanted children, so…” Ailith shrugged. “We make do.”

“He is good as mine own,” Gavina said, pressing a kiss to the boy’s cheek. He wiped it away and went back to nibbling his piece of bread.

Sherlock ate in silence, watching Hamish process this information out of the corner of his eye. When he finally spoke, his tone was controlled. “If I had known, I would have tried to come back. I…I am sorry.”

“Now, I wouldn’t have had you making that sort of risk,” Ailith snapped, pointing her spoon at him. “We got on perfectly fine. We have a family, and now that you’re back it’s going to be even fuller. We can find you a maid and you’ll have enough children to pull a plow, do you understand?

“I don’t want a maid,” Hamish said, taking another bite.

“Then we find you a maid to bear children and you carry on with your horse for all I care,” Ailith grumbled.

“Honestly...” Gavina sighed, shaking her head. “It’s as if the entire concept is foreign to you.”

Ailith shrugged. “It matters not to me, as long as there are Watsons to inherit the land after we’re gone.”

“There will be,” Hamish said with a nod. Gavina offered him a smile before feeding Little Hamish another bite of stew.

Sherlock finished his food as quickly as he dared while the family caught up. Little Hamish ended up climbing into Sherlock’s lap to tug on his scarf, laughing at the face he made each time. When the child grew bored of that game he fell asleep in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, fingers still tangled in the ends of the scarf. “Point me in the direction of a bed and I’ll lay him down,” Sherlock whispered as he stood. Gavina motioned to a far door and Sherlock went through, laying the child in the middle of the cot, covering him with a blanket.

When he returned to the kitchen Hamish and Ailith were leaning close together, whispering fiercely. Hamish frowned at her before turning back to Sherlock. “Would you like to see my favourite part of this farm?” he asked, his tone laced with false cheer.

“Sure,” Sherlock said, deciding that he didn’t need his coat and scarf in the high noon sun. He draped them over the back of one of the chairs.

“Ach, you didn’t throttle him did you?” Ailith asked, shoving Hamish. Sherlock brought a hand to his neck. He had forgotten about the bruises. They were fading now, a greenish purple, but they were still visible.

“That was Jim’s doing,” Hamish grumbled as he stood. “I’ll be taking him down to the mill. Do you still see _Ruadh_ on occasion?”

“Aye, saw him two days ago. I bet if you take a bit of meat he’ll make an appearance.” 

Hamish nodded and picked some lamb from the stew, wrapping it in a cloth. “Come along,” he called over his shoulder and Sherlock followed him.

The trek to the mill through the tall grass was easy enough. Sherlock could feel beads of sweat prickling on his hairline, and he pushed his hair off of his forehead as he followed Hamish. They reached the mill and Hamish threw himself down on the bank of the water.

“So what sort of creature are we feeding?” Sherlock asked softly as he settled down beside Hamish, looking at the treeline on the other side of the stream.

“You’ll see,” Hamish said with a grin before whistling through his teeth. Sherlock was still, waiting on a bear or wolf or something to emerge from the trees, but there was nothing. Hamish whistled again, slightly louder, before calling “Come on, _Ruadh_.”

Sherlock was about to write it off as a lark when there was a rustling in the underbrush. He froze as Hamish lobbed a piece of the lamb toward the movement. After a moment a greying snout poked free of the brush, followed shortly by the rest of the animal’s body.

He was a rather portly red fox, and he snatched up the bit of lamb quickly, wagging his thinning tail. “He’s quite old now,” Hamish said with a fond smile, tossing another piece of lamb towards the fox. _Ruadh_ sniffed the air for a moment before trotting over to the next piece of meat. “When I was young his mother was killed by hunters. I hid the kit in the barn and took care of him the best I could, but Ailith found out about him and told our father, who forced me to turn him out. But I would sneak out and feed him, even then. He’s not quite wild, but not quite tame. I’ve seen him catch fish in this stream, but he will also consent to the occasional stroke.”

The fox came closer and let out a little yip, which Hamish rewarded with another bit of meat, which he munched down with gusto.

Sherlock rested his chin on his knees as he watched the fox lick his lips, yipping again for more. “May I feed him one?” he asked, looking over to Hamish and holding out his hand. Hamish gave him a piece of meat which Sherlock tossed to the fox. A few years ago the animal might have been nimble enough to catch it in the air, but as it was he let it fall to the ground before snatching it up. “Does his name mean red? It sounds similar.”

“It means that, yes. But it also means wild.”

Sherlock nodded. The fox had walked down to the stream and was taking a drink, tail high in the air behind him. “I will miss you, Hamish,” he said softly, not able to look at the man. “I didn’t think I would, and I tried very hard not to admit it, but there it is.”

“I know that I will miss thee far more than you will miss me,” Hamish said, bumping their shoulders together. “You’ve got someone to go back to.”

“You have your family back,” Sherlock said, turning toward him slightly. “Gavina is practically begging you to give her children. You could all raise them together. Gavina could be your wife to outsiders, but at home you could do whatever you like. Take a lover, raise your children.”

Hamish sighed, watching the fox wade out into the water in search of fish. “I suppose it is the best I can hope for.”

“Sometimes hope is all we have.”

Hamish nodded in silence. After a moment he cleared his throat. “Now, I’ve shared a very important part of myself, time for you to do the same. Tell me something about you that most people don’t know.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Is that what this was, a ploy for information? Fine, my full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and I found William too common to wish to go by it. You know I play violin…oh, and I had a dog as a child named Redbeard.”

“Not far off from _Ruadh,_ ” Hamish said with a smile wider than any that Sherlock had seen on his face before. The fox yipped again from the water, his teeth clamped tightly around a fish.

“Not far,” Sherlock agreed, leaning against Hamish’s shoulder. They sat in silence until Sherlock turned to face him properly. Hamish’s brow furrowed as his gaze roamed Sherlock’s face, and as Sherlock leaned forward he pulled back. Sherlock huffed out a breath. “You have permission,” he said softly.

Hamish didn’t hesitate. He surged forward to bring their lips together, raising both of his hands to tangle in Sherlock’s curls. There was a desperate sound coming from one of them, but Sherlock could not be sure from whom. Hamish was frantic in his kisses, nibbling on Sherlock’s bottom lip before delving deeper into his mouth. Sherlock was light-headed and he turned his face away to catch his breath, his entire body shivering as he felt Hamish’s lips slide down his neck, accompanied by the gentle scratch of his beard.

He was suddenly too warm, and somehow he had ended up sitting astride Hamish in the grass, and he could hear the crunching of fish bone as _Ruadh_ ate his fish nearby. “This is not a good idea,” Sherlock said softly, his hands lying flat against Hamish’s chest. His fingers found the scar of his gunshot wound through the tunic and he traced it lightly.

“Can you not give me just this?” Hamish asked, looking up into Sherlock’s eyes, pleading. “This must last me a lifetime.”

Sherlock dropped his head onto Hamish’s shoulder, taking a deep breath. “Tonight. You can have tonight.”

Hamish wrapped his arms around Sherlock, whispering ‘thank you’ in Gaelic over and over as he held him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter goes how you would expect it to. ;)
> 
> And if you are familiar with the books, it will become obvious to you that I have done a little research into what happens in the following books, but not a whole lot.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns the explicit rating.

Dinner was a joyous affair. Sherlock still felt out of place within the family, but Little Hamish seemed to find him entertaining and climbed into his lap again. They shared the food on Sherlock’s plate, and Ailith and Gavina both looked at the pair of them with fondness.

“Do you have children, Sherlock?” Ailith asked, reaching for her glass of stout. She had poured both her and Hamish one after the meal was finished, while both Sherlock and Gavina stuck to water.

Sherlock shook his head, smoothing down Little Hamish’s hair. “No, I can’t say that the thought has ever appealed to me. My life doesn’t leave much room for children.”

“Does your life leave much room for a wife?” Ailith asked, ignoring Hamish’s glare in her direction.

Sherlock shook his head. “No interest in a wife either.”

Ailith raised an eyebrow, looking from her brother to Sherlock knowingly. “He’s leaving tomorrow,” Hamish told her softly. “So whatever scheme you are coming up with won’t work.”

Gavina made a soft sound, taking a sip of her water. “We are glad you could visit before then, at least,” she said to Sherlock, reaching over to lay a hand on his arm. “So we could thank you properly for all you’ve done for our brother.”

Ailith nodded, lifting her mug. “You’re alright for an Englishman.”

Sherlock laughed, glancing over to Hamish. “You can’t argue with that,” he said with a shrug.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock said. Little Hamish reached for Gavina with a whimper and she took him.

“Time for bed, I think,” Gavina said, holding the little boy close. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Sherlock stood with a stretch, wandering into the living area to settle in a chair near the fire. Hamish and Ailith spoke at the table quietly for a bit, and when Gavina came back out from the bedroom she joined Sherlock, curling up on the woven rug that lay in front of the hearth. She smiled kindly at Sherlock. “It may be time for you to turn in as well,” she suggested. Her tone was melodical and soft, and Sherlock shook his head slightly.

“No, I’m fine,” he said, forcing himself to sit up.

“If we had a violin we could have him play,” Hamish said, leaving Ailith at the table to watch his retreat with an annoyed frown. “He is quite good.”

“Hamish has only heard me play once, he is exaggerating,” Sherlock interjected. Hamish settled down on the floor in front of his chair, leaning against Sherlock’s legs. He shifted a bit so that his legs bracketed Hamish’s body, and the other man wrapped a hand around his ankle, giving it a squeeze.

“Once was enough to know that you are good,” Hamish said, turning so he could catch Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock gave him an exasperated smile and Hamish turned back to Gavina. “And you could sing. She has a lovely voice, like a lark.”

“Now he is definitely telling tales,” Gavina said with a flush, standing to go clear the table and put away the remnants of their dinner. “I never claimed to be a songstress.”

Hamish’s head came to rest on Sherlock’s knee and they sat in silence.  Hamish was tracing careful circles over the swell of Sherlock’s ankle and he was beginning to doze off again. “Come, I think it’s time for you to rest,” Hamish said softly, standing and reaching out for Sherlock’s hands.

With a sigh Sherlock took them, bidding Gavina and Ailith good night before following Hamish to the rooms. “This one is mine,” Hamish said, motioning to the one farthest away from where Ailith and Gavina would be sleeping. “And that is yours,” he added, motioning to the one across the hall. Sherlock nodded.

“And if I wished to wash up a bit, before bed?” Sherlock asked.

Hamish held up a finger and went back to the kitchens, coming back with two large basins of water and a sliver of soap. He passed one of the basins to Sherlock before snapping the soap in half, giving Sherlock the larger piece. “There you are. Do you… do you require anything else?”

Sherlock shook his head, not quite able to look Hamish in the eye as they stood there in the doorways to their respective rooms. He could hear Hamish’s sister’s voice from the kitchen, followed by Gavina’s. “Good night,” Sherlock finally said, turning to go into his room.

The nearly full moon was bright enough to light a candle by, and Sherlock set to work undressing, carefully folding his clothes and draping them over the small cot. He started washing at his groin before moving to his underarms. The soap stung his skin a little but seemed to work at eradicating the worst of the grime and the odour. He moved on then to the rest of his body, the soap running rather low by the time he had washed everything. He skipped his hair, finger combing it and hoping for the best. He was chilled by the time he had finished, but he felt fully clean for the first time since he had arrived.

He pulled on a fresh tunic, one clearly made for Hamish and therefore shorter than the ones he himself had been wearing, but still long enough to grant him some semblance of modesty.

He studied himself in the mirror. His collarbones were a bit more pronounced than they had been before, his hands rougher and hair longer. He had developed freckles on his face, over the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheekbones. He looked different to his own eyes, and deep down he knew that he was different in many ways.

He had promised Hamish that they could have tonight, for one. He had considered sex a few times in his life, but never enough to _want_ it. It was always a philosophical sort of consideration: about the power that it has over people and how easy it is to manipulate people into doing what one wanted at the promise of it. Never had he given it as much thought as he had with Irene Adler.

He had been in awe of her, of the sway that she had over her clients. He had noticed how furious John was when she had touched Sherlock, how he barely restrained his anger.

In retrospect, Sherlock understood that John was jealous. At the time he thought John was jealous of Sherlock himself, but that wasn’t it. He was jealous of the ease with which she broached physical contact with Sherlock, and how receptive Sherlock had been.

That itself had been a manipulation on his part. He let Irene think her charms were working for as long as was required. In the end, he did hold a sort of affection for her. She taught him a number of things.

He began touching John more often after that. Not enough for John to notice a difference day to day, but enough to test a theory.

He had begun considering sex with John before the fall. He considered way that it would feel, the way John would taste. It had become a preoccupation, one that he had to push aside to deal with Moriarty.

After the fall he did not allow himself to think on the matter any further. When he returned and John was engaged then married he resolved to never think on the matter again. He could live his life without ever submitting to primal urges. He could be happy with cases and the occasional assistance from John.

When John moved back to Baker Street, marriage over and life in shambles, the thoughts began creeping back in despite his best efforts. They had learned to pick the locks in his mind palace and whispered ‘ _What if’_ and _‘Please’._ Occasionally John’s eyes would linger too long or Sherlock’s hand would find his shoulder and he allowed himself to swim in the warmth it provided, but he never said anything. Neither did John.

But he wanted. He never stopped wanting.

Sherlock let out a slow breath, looking towards the closed bedroom door. There was a man across the hall from him who wanted him, wanted all of him. That man had risked his life a number of times to keep Sherlock safe. He had sacrificed over and over again, and he looked at Sherlock in a way that John only occasionally did. Like he was the single most important thing in the universe.

There was a possibility that Sherlock was wrong about John. He wouldn’t know for sure until he was back in his own time. As nervous as he was about the prospect, he was not willing to pass up an opportunity to spend the night with someone who smiled at the thought of him. Someone who thought he was worth fighting for, even dying for.

Sherlock opened his door as silently as he could, his candle in hand. The house had gone quiet, the fire banked and the other candles extinguished. He padded across the hallway, pushing Hamish’s door open without knocking. Hamish was standing by the window, and startled a bit when he turned around. “I wasn’t sure you would come,” he said softly. His hair was still pulled back at the nape of his neck, and he was undressed save for his tunic as well.

“I promised I would,” Sherlock said as he closed the door behind him.

“You are tired, I wouldn’t have…”

“Hamish,” Sherlock interrupted, putting down his candle. “I’m fine.”

Hamish nodded, watching Sherlock’s movements with sharp eyes. He reminded Sherlock of a horse that needed gentled, handled with soft voices and softer hands so as not to be agitated further.

“Does it bother you that I have never done this before?” Sherlock asked, apropos of nothing.

Hamish frowned at him slightly. “Does it bother you that I have, with both men and women?”

Sherlock shook his head, taking a step closer.

“Good. You and your John, you’ve never…”

Sherlock help up a hand to silence Hamish. “Can we not talk about John?”

Hamish nodded. “Of course.”

They were silent for a moment, watching each other in the flickering candlelight. Sherlock reached forward, took the bottom of Hamish’s tunic in his hands and slowly pulled it up. Hamish lifted his arms to aid the process and soon the tunic was gone, tossed aside to the floor.

Hamish’s body was impressive, but that was not news to Sherlock. He had seen him in varying stages of undress a number of times, but this time he was not studying wounds or mapping scars. Sherlock’s hands traced his muscular, sloping shoulders, bypassing the twisted scar from the bullet to carefully outline his pectoral muscles. They twitched involuntarily and his nipples tightened as his skin rose in gooseflesh.

Sherlock’s fingertips explored the hills and valleys of Hamish’s ribcage before settling on his narrow hipbones for a moment, giving them both time to breathe. Hamish’s head hung low, hips surging forward into Sherlock’s hands.

Their breathing was heavy in the darkness, and Sherlock brought his hands back up to untie the length of leather that was holding Hamish’s hair back.

“Will you lay with me?” Hamish asked, one of his hands fisted in the loose fabric of Sherlock’s tunic. Sherlock nodded and helped Hamish remove his tunic.

Hamish tossed it aside but didn’t tear his eyes away from him. Hamish’s gaze was intense and dark as Sherlock sank down into bed. He folded his hands behind his head as he watched Hamish follow.  Hamish climbed on top of him, sitting up on his knees as he looked down at Sherlock’s body.

Hamish cursed under his breath in Gaelic, exploring Sherlock’s body with his hands for a moment before leaning close so he could brush his lips against Sherlock’s.

The kiss made Sherlock’s body burn, and he felt a hard pulse of arousal in his groin. He raised his hands to tangle in Hamish’s hair, holding him in place as their bodies settled against each other. They kissed until they were breathless, and Hamish moved down his neck, over his adam’s apple, and down to the hollow between his collarbones. His fingers traced the jut of Sherlock’s clavicles and down over his biceps as he sucked one of his nipples into his mouth, teeth grazing over the pebbling flesh.

The sound that Sherlock made was louder than he had intended it to be, and he turned his face into the pillow to muffle his voice. Hamish licked down his stomach, dipped his tongue into his bellybutton before he wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s hips, pressing him down into the cot as he burrowed his nose into coarse pubic hair.

Sherlock panted into the pillow as he felt Hamish’s hot breath against the sensitive flesh of his cock, which was now fully hard and straining upwards. Hamish licked a searing stripe along the underside of his cock, tracing the thick vein that pulsed there. Sherlock’s hips bucked but Hamish held him down so he could suck the head of his erection into his mouth.

Sherlock bit his lip, his eyes screwed shut as Hamish hummed around his flesh. One of Sherlock’s hands tangled into the other man’s hair, rising and falling with each slide of his mouth. Sherlock could tell that his orgasm was coming fast and he pushed at Hamish’s shoulder. “Stop…I’m…”

Hamish pulled back with a pop, and Sherlock’s cock fell to his stomach. “Do you not with to have your release?” he asked with a concerned frown.

“Not yet,” Sherlock replied, sitting up and reaching for Hamish. “Let me…”

Hamish sat back up on his knees and Sherlock reached for his cock, wrapping his fingers around his erection to pull back his foreskin. Hamish was hard and twitching in his hand, thrusting into Sherlock’s fingers. “You…you don’t have this skin like me, on your member.”

Sherlock shook his head, pulling the skin forward over the head and squeezing lightly. “I don’t. My parents had it cut off when I was born.”

Hamish shook his head as he leaned forward to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “And you call us savages,” he said softly.

Sherlock laughed breathlessly, leaning forward to lay his head on Hamish’s shoulder. “Do you have anything we could use for lubrication?” he asked.

Hamish stilled for a moment, and he cursed under his breath. “Ah, no, but I’m sure there is some oil to be found in the kitchen. What… I don’t want…” Hamish flushed, sinking back onto his heels.

“I’m not going to penetrate you,” Sherlock said, resting a hand on Hamish’s thigh. “I’ve got a different idea, where neither of us has to do that. Okay?” 

Hamish nodded, climbing to his feet. He dragged one of the blankets off of the bed and draped it around his middle before setting off towards the kitchen. It didn’t take long for him to return holding a small bottle of oil, which he presented to Sherlock. He dropped the blanket to the floor before climbing back onto the bed.

Sherlock turned on his side, taking the stopper out of the bottle of oil. “Hold out your hands,” he instructed and Hamish and he did so. Sherlock dribbled some of the oil into his hands before setting the oil aside. “I want you to rub that into my thighs and over yourself. I will hold them tight, and you can… you can fuck me that way. If you want.”

Hamish’s hands were still cupped in front of him and he nodded. “Turn over,” he said softly, and Sherlock did so, pillowing his head on his arms. Hamish was quiet for a moment and Sherlock was about to tell him to hurry when he felt warm oil drip down the crack of his arse before pooling in the small crevice between his thighs. Hamish’s hands were soon there, smoothing the oil over the swell of his arse before slipping between his thighs, rubbing the oil into his skin. Sherlock could feel Hamish’s fingers against his balls and he held his breath. “Up,” Hamish instructed and his voice was breathless.

Sherlock drew his knees up under him, and Hamish’s touches were tentative and tender. One hand came to rest over his iliac crest while the other, Sherlock assumed, smoothed the rest of the oil over his cock. Sherlock licked his lips as he waited, trembling.

Hamish smoothed a hand up his spine as he pressed his erection between Sherlock’s thighs in one smooth motion. The head of his cock pressed against Sherlock’s scrotum for a moment before he pulled back. He fucked Sherlock’s thighs slowly, a low hum issuing from his throat as he held on to Sherlock’s hips tightly.

Sherlock tried to reach his own cock but found the angle awkward. Noticing his movement Hamish stopped. “Are you alright?” Hamish asked softly.

“Can we… here…” Sherlock steered their bodies so they were lying on their sides. He reached behind himself to help guide Hamish back in place, and he felt Hamish’s hand, still oily, wrapped around his erection.

He fucked Sherlock in time with his strokes, panting against the skin of his shoulder. “ _Tha gaol agam ort, Sassenach.”_

Sherlock’s orgasm ripped from his body as if by force, and he had to bring his own hand up to his mouth to muffle his shout. His body trembled as Hamish sped up his thrusts until he was coming as well, sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder as his hips hitched over and over.

They lay there tangled together, Hamish pressing kiss after kiss to his shoulders. Finally he rolled over and climbed out of bed, walking over to the basin of water to dampen a cloth. He brought it back and guided Sherlock’s thighs apart, wiping down his skin, removing as much of the oil and evidence of their coupling from their skin as he could.

When he was finished he settled back down beside Sherlock, who enveloped him in his arms, not opening his eyes. “Rest well, _Sassenach_ ,” Hamish muttered.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to Hamish’s hair and tightened his hold.

 

 

Before the sun came up the next morning they made love again, spilling into Hamish’s hand as he stroked both of them. They kissed leisurely until Hamish climbed out of bed to dampen another cloth, to clean them again. “Since you are so keen on cleanliness,” Hamish said with a grin before he tossed the cloth away.

The sun broke through the window and Hamish sighed, folding his hands over his chest. “I suppose we should get ready. You want to get back as soon as possible, I would assume.”

Sherlock nodded, climbing out of bed. His legs were wobbly as he went for his tunic, and he pulled it over his head wordlessly. He had nearly made it to the door when Hamish said, “You said his name again, last night.”

The bottom dropped out of Sherlock’s stomach as he looked back to Hamish. His hair was a mess and his lips were still swollen from kisses, but he did not look sad. He looked resigned to his loss. “I’m… I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally said, not sure if there was anything else to say.

“Go, else they’ll see you,” Hamish said, waving Sherlock off.

He made it back across the hall without incident and dressed quickly, checking himself in the mirror afterwards. He had minimal beard burn on his face, and the rest was easily covered by clothes. He was out and into the kitchen before Hamish, and he took the opportunity to splash his face with a bit of cool water, hoping it would cut down on the redness.

Hamish came out shortly after. “Right, let’s leave before everyone wakes, I’m not sure if the little one would let you leave otherwise,” he whispered as he grabbed his pack. Sherlock put on his coat and scarf and nodded, following Hamish outside into the bright, crisp morning.

The ride was an agonizing mixture of too long and not long enough. They stopped twice and both times after eating they sought each other’s bodies out, leaving indelible marks on one another.

The last leg of the journey Sherlock laid his head on Hamish’s shoulder, eyes closed as he tried to ignore the frantic voices that whispered he was a fool for leaving.

When Brianna’s pace began to slow, he knew that they were close. When he opened his eyes it was confirmed: there were the standing stones. They seemed larger now than they had before, and Sherlock’s skin prickled at the sight of them.

He was the first to dismount, patting the horse’s flank before walking towards the stones. Hamish followed a few paces back. “Well,” Sherlock said, and his voice seemed far too loud for the quiet stillness of the area. The sun was near setting but the moon already hung full in the sky. “I suppose this is goodbye.”

He turned back to Hamish, who was squinting into the setting sun. He turned his eyes back to Sherlock and nodded, taking a step closer to him. “Aye, I suppose it is.”

Sherlock felt that he needed to say something. Anything. But nothing came. “Goodbye, then,” he finally said.

Hamish nodded. “Goodbye.”

Sherlock started to turn away again but Hamish surged forward, grabbing his arm. “Wait… I have something…” he pulled something from one of his fingers and pushed it onto Sherlock’s. It was a signet ring, stamped with the crest of the Watson clan. “That ring was my father’s, and his father’s before him. I should like… I should like for you to have it, to remember me by. Ailith thought I was being silly, that it was was mine to keep, but… well, you already have my heart, why not this as well?” Hamish held on to his hand for a moment longer before he drew Sherlock in for a final hug.  “ _Tha gaol agam ort_ ,” he whispered again.

“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked, even though he was fairly certain he already knew.

Hamish pulled back, holding Sherlock at arm’s length. “It means safe travels.”

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. “It doesn’t. “

“It means that I love you.” Hamish’s head was bowed, and his voice was soft, almost hesitant.

Sherlock nodded. He slipped off his scarf and draped it around Hamish’s neck. “Just in case you are in need of a sling again,” he said with a tearful smile before taking a step backward, toward the stones. Hamish followed a few steps but did not dare to breach the circle.

But Sherlock did. He stepped into the centre, walking directly to the stone that had brought him here. He lifted a hand and hesitated when he noticed he was shaking. He wasn’t sure if he was shaking from excitement, fear or sadness. He clenched his hand into a fist and took a deep breath, his eyes sliding closed.

He opened his eyes again to cast one last look towards Hamish, who was watching Sherlock with tears in his eyes. They were so blue.

He lifted his hand again, and this time it wasn’t shaking.

He laid it on the stone.  

One moment he was there, and the next…

He was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I have the next chapter done but I'm sitting on it for dramatic purposes...


	25. Chapter 25

John and Greg were four pints in and honestly, all John could think about was going back to the room and passing out. He had listened to Greg drone on and on about Mycroft Holmes’ ability to get him to do whatever he wanted and it took everything for John not to snap ‘Just fucking suck his dick already’. But people in glass houses, all that.

“He…ah… he asked me to assist him with something in Prague,” Greg said, scratching the silver scruff on his chin and doing a valiant impression of nonchalance. “In a few weeks, mind. Offered to hire me as a private contractor.”

John grinned, elbowing Greg in the ribs. “A private contractor, eh? Oh, I can imagine him wanting a personal body guard who looks like James Fucking Bond. You might get a free suit out of it, and a bloody nice one at that. Are you going to accept?”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve told him I don’t want to work in private security. But if it’s a one-off, then maybe.”

“I think,” John said, taking a dramatic pause to suck a mouthful of foam from the top of his fresh Guinness, “that this is him asking you out.”

“Expect he’s paying me to do it,” Greg grumbled. “Like a prozzy.”

John chuckled. “You don’t have to accept the money. That way you can fuck with a clean conscious.”

Greg shook his head. “You don’t get it. I took care of Sherlock after he came out of rehab last time. He refused to talk to Mycroft at all, so he camped out on my sofa and ate every sweet I brought into the flat. Mycroft tried to pay me, but I refused. A couple weeks later I got an envelope in the mail that informed me that my flat was paid in full and I owned it. If you tell him no he’ll figure out another way to pay you.”

John grinned. “I think Mycroft Holmes wants you despite your support of shite football teams.”

“Fuck off,” Greg said with an eye roll. “I don’t think he could care any less about football. Never heard him even mention it.”

“I’m joking,” John sighed, watching as Greg traced circles in the condensation that his glass made on the polished wooden bar. “I do think he’s serious about it. The Holmes’, they are shite at talking about their feelings, but I would think buying your flat and giving it to you and inviting you to Prague for a paid holiday is pretty clear.”

Greg scrubbed his hands over his buzzed hair. He was letting it grow back out again, or at least claimed to be. “Yeah, well, it could all just be a fluke. I need his arse to tell me what he wants, I’m not just going to… to drag him in by the umbrella and kiss him. If I’ve got it wrong he could have me killed.”

“I don’t think you have it wrong,” John said softly. “But I get it. All I know is that if I had the chance… Look, here’s the thing. Sherlock, he did loads of things that I wrote off as a fluke. He went out of his way to protect me, paid for my meals, bought me gifts, all sorts of things. And I did things for him too, things to show him how I cared. But if he never knew how I felt, how was he to know that I was doing those things to show him… show him how much I care? We never talked about it. And I get now that it has always been up to me to broach that subject. Because Sherlock was never willing to show that he felt anything, especially if it had the potential to hurt him. His dumb ass started taking drugs again to distract Magnussen from the fact that his weak point was me, for Christ’s sake. And I’m fairly certain that you are growing your hair back out because when you said you shaved it off so you wouldn’t have to take care of it and Mycroft Holmes told you that he liked it when it was all ‘tousled’, I think he said. So we all make sacrifices.”  

Greg nodded. “I’ll do it. And if I misread everything, it’s fine. No harm done. I mean, there is a lot of fucking harm done but I can deal with it. It’s worth a shot.”

John offered him a slight smile. “Good. Someone deserves to be happy.”

Greg finished off his pint. “Right, well, if all this work we’re doing pays off you won’t have any excuse either.”

John huffed, draining the rest of his Guinness before standing. “Come on, I’m exhausted. Can we head back to the inn?” 

Greg nodded. “Yeah, I was going to suggest it. No offense, but you look like you’ve been awake for a week straight.”

John picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and pulled it on with a yawn. “Cheers, you bastard.”

Greg chuckled as he started toward the door, holding it open for John before setting off down the street. “I mean it with all possible kindness.”

“Just say it, I look like shit,” John said as he dug his hands into his pockets. The fog was thick but the sky was bright with the light of the full moon. Everything seemed otherworldly, soft and out of focus. John blamed the alcohol for that particular observation.

Greg sighed. “Come on now, you have good reason. You’ve been trekking through the highlands looking for your unrequited love that may or may not have been mysteriously transported to a different time. Jesus, somehow that makes more sense when you’re pissed.”

John laughed in spite of himself. “Shut it, you. He’s… unrequited love is a bit overdramatic.”

Greg glanced over at John, arching a brow. “What would you call it, then?”

As they rounded the corner towards the inn John felt his head spin slightly. The lamppost flickered a bit and there was a lone figure standing under it. John took a deep breath. “You see that, right?” he asked Greg, motioning to the figure standing under the light.

Greg nodded, a hand coming to rest on his hip, where his badge and holster were.

Softly, through the swirling fog and the bright moonlight, the figure spoke. “Yes, what would you call it, John?”

It was as if someone had switched off gravity. His stomach felt like it was in his throat and he drew in a rasping breath that sounded like _Sherlock_.  He realized that he was going to faint when he heard Greg yell it to the figure, and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

 

John woke up with a start. “Woah there mate, take it easy,” Greg said. He had been texting by the small fireplace in John’s room, but when he saw that John was awake he slipped the phone away and took a step closer. “I caught you before you hit the ground but you’ve had quite the shock.”

“I fainted like a Victorian maiden,” John grumbled. He heard a low laugh from behind him and he stilled, closing his eyes again. He took a deep breath that he released through his nose. “I swear to god if I’ve finally gone round the bend just let me have this.”

John flopped back down on the bed, only then opening his eyes to look in the direction the chuckle had issued from.

And there was Sherlock. He looked like he had been living rough for a while: he was thin, his hair was wild, and his neck held fading bruises. His trousers were stained and faded, and instead of his button down he was wearing some kind of linen tunic.

John wasn’t in full control of his limbs quite yet but it didn’t stop him from reaching out, dragging Sherlock in for a bone-brushing hug. Sherlock’s head came to settle on John’s shoulder and they clung to one another for a few moments before Sherlock drew back to look at John properly.

His gaze was soft as it studied John’s face. John swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat. “W…what the fuck are you wearing?” he asked.

Sherlock laughed again, tossing his head back. One of his hands was pressed to his abdomen. “That’s the question you choose to ask?” he asked, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye.

John licked his lips, sitting up. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need something to eat? Mostly…where the _hell_ have you been?”

Sherlock’s eyes were bright when his gaze met John’s. “That…that is a very long story.”

“I’ve got the rest of my life,” John replied.

Greg dragged over a chair. “Well go on then.”

And Sherlock began to tell his story. It took well into the night.

 

“Mycroft’s on his way back from America, he should be back by tomorrow evening,” Greg said as he typed away on his phone with a frown. “Bloody autocorrect…” he grumbled, pressing the buttons more forcefully for a moment before putting his phone in his pocket. “Right, I think I’d rather go to sleep then sit here and watch himself take a bath, so I’ll see you both in the morning.” Greg caught John’s gaze and gave him a wink before letting himself out of the room.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the rim of the claw foot tub. He had washed his hair vigorously, using the entire tiny bottle of shampoo the hotel had provided before doing the same with the conditioner. He had then upended the body wash in the water and the scent of bergamot and lime filled the small bathroom. After he was clean he had decided to just soak in the warm water, letting it turn his skin red and wrinkled.

When John checked in with Sherlock after a bit he was beginning to doze. John wrapped lightly on the door frame. “Hey, you’d better get out of there. It’s late, and the water’s probably gone cold by now.”

Sherlock stretched forward to pull out the tub’s plug before standing, reaching for a towel.

John tried not to look at the bruises that littered Sherlock’s skin. Tried not to notice that some of them looked suspiciously like teeth marks. Definitely didn’t acknowledge the white hot jealousy that boiled in his stomach.

Sherlock dried quickly before slipping into a dressing gown. “I do wish you would have brought one of mine with you,” Sherlock said softly as he tied the belt. “How I missed silk.”

“So are you not going to tell me any more about him?” John asked as he settled down on his own bed. He had already changed into his pyjama pants and a worn t-shirt, and his hands were balled into fists that he tensed and released. “You’ve got a few love bites, I’m assuming from…”

“Hamish,” Sherlock said softly, “I know you didn’t forget his name.” He glanced over to John, looking hesitant, before settling down on the bed opposite. “I don’t think it’s the best idea right now, no. But I would like to go to the library tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind.”

 John bristled slightly but nodded, laying down in the bed, back to Sherlock. “Whatever you want.”

Sherlock sighed, and after a few beats he said, “It isn’t unrequited, John.”

And it was silent. John considered rolling over to face him, to look at Sherlock’s face to make sure that he wasn’t lying. Instead John pulled his blankets up higher. “Go to sleep,” he said. John squeezed his eyes shut tightly, listening to Sherlock’s steady breaths across the room from him. It took ages of lying there still, listening to him breathing and telling himself that Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere, to fall asleep.

 

“John.”

John groaned, kicking the blankets off of his legs. He was sweating and shaking and when he opened his eyes Sherlock’s face was there, right next to his. “W…wha…”

“You were having a nightmare, saying my name,” Sherlock said softly. “Move over.”

John did so without arguing. He was trembling still and his skin was clammy with sweat, but still Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. “’M okay,” he mumbled, even as he laid his head on Sherlock’s chest.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “And so am I.”

                                                                                               

The next morning John woke up alone in his bed. His blankets were draped over his body and Sherlock was curled up in the windowsill. “I really need some clothes,” he sighed instead of saying ‘Good morning’.

“You do look like you came right from a Renaissance Faire.” John said with a chuckle as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, scratching his stomach.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can call the front desk and have some things delivered. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I enjoy Renaissance Faires.”

John stretched. “Breakfast?”

“Tea. Lots of tea.”

John nodded, wandering over to the phone to place an order for them.

“Can I borrow your phone?” Sherlock asked, holding out a hand. “I think mine may be reduced to a useless brick.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” John said, crossing over to get it off of the charger. As soon as it was in his hand Sherlock clicked away on it. After a few minutes he tossed it back to John.

“Clothes are on the way, and we can go to the library after they arrive.”

John nodded, dressing in silence. He was itching to ask questions, brain screaming to do so, but he didn’t want to upset Sherlock. He didn’t want to push him to talk about things that he wasn’t ready to talk about.

Even though John really, really fucking wanted to talk about it.

“John, I…”

John turned back toward Sherlock, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Before, when you and Lestrade were talking… was he exaggerating, or…or have you expressed interest in a romantic relationship with me?”

John licked his lips, digging his hands in his pockets. “I think it’s best that we let your previous romantic relationship cool before we talk about a new one, yeah?”

Sherlock winced slightly. “That wasn’t…he knew…”

John shook his head. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s fine, it’s all fine. I’m just…I’m sorry you couldn’t stay, if that’s what you wanted.”

Sherlock stood. He had a deep frown on his face as he studied John, who tried to keep his face artfully blank. “Why would you think that was what I wanted?”

John shrugged, ruffling his hair a bit. “I don’t know. Well, I mean, I do know. You’re covered in love bites and bruises, which is pretty fucking telling. It wasn’t all bad, eh? And I’m not an idiot. I heard you. Last week, we were at the stones and I heard you yell my name, then his. So that’s the guy. Right, it was a bloke, I’m not that far off base, am I?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, in what appeared to be disbelief. “Are you jealous of a man who has been dead for over three hundred years? John… he reminded me of…” He shook his head. There was a knock at the door, and their food and a large parcel was delivered. John poured hot water over two tea bags while Sherlock dressed. “Never mind,” he finally snapped as he fastened the cuffs of his shirt. “I don’t know what I was thinking, more’s the fool. I’m going.”

John clenched a hand into a tight fist. “No you aren’t. You’re going to eat and then we’re going to go together. I’m not too keen on the idea of letting you out of my sight, thanks.”

“Why are you being so bloody difficult? I didn’t do any of this on purpose! It’s not like I went waltzing off with the intent of falling in love with a version of you in a kilt,” Sherlock snapped. His eyes widened slightly, and John could tell that he hadn’t meant to say any of those things.

John took a bite of a piece of toast, looking away to allow Sherlock time to compose himself. By the time Sherlock made another sound John had eaten two pieces of toast and a bit of bacon and Sherlock had laced up his brand new leather shoes. John had started on a poached egg when Sherlock snatched up a plate that held various pieces of fruit and Danish. He had eaten three strawberries when he said, “I want to see if he survived.”

John took a sip of tea before putting the mug aside. “If you’re talking about Hamish Watson, he died. Three years after he was imprisoned by the British army.”

Sherlock nodded once. “Still, I would like to see it for myself.”

John finished off his egg, wiping his mouth after he finished off his tea. “Sure. I can find all of it pretty easily; I’ve become rather familiar with the library here.”

Sherlock speared a bit of papaya. “How long have you been here? Did you not go back to London?”

John shrugged as he went to get his own shoes and jacket. “For a while, but your brother wanted me back here. Greg came down… god, I think it was last week, maybe the week before? I’ve sort of lost track of time. But in all you’ve been gone more than a month.”

“It seemed longer.”

John nodded. “It did, yeah.” 

Sherlock put the plate of fruit back with the rest of the breakfast before pulling his suit jacket on. “Can we go now?”

John stood, walking over to Sherlock’s coat. “This looks like it’s been put through a paper shredder.”

Sherlock sighed. “I think my phone’s in the pocket. I ordered a charger with my clothes; I should charge it and see if it survived. It’s seen a bit of water and was used as a projectile, so I’m not holding out much hope.”

John dug the phone from one of the many coat pockets and brought it over to Sherlock, who was untangling the cord. Sherlock’s breathing shuddered as he felt John’s finger brush against the palm of his hand, but he plugged the phone in quickly.

It took a bit, but the charging light came on. “Right, I think it can stay here and charge for a bit,” Sherlock said, grabbing the key to their room off of the table by the door. “Coming, John?”

John nodded, pulling out his phone to text Greg to let him know where they were heading.

And like so many times before, John followed in Sherlock’s wake.

 


	26. Chapter 26

It was there, in plain type.  Listed among the known dead was Hamish M. Watson. He died alongside a number of the MacKenzie clan, so it was clear that Hamish had left his own clan territory to help the MacKenzies. Sherlock recognized a few other names—names of the tax collecting group, the men who had helped him save Hamish’s life.

They had all died together on a battlefield not far from there. There was a notation that a memorial had been put in place to commemorate Clan MacKenzie, but since Hamish was not one of them his name wasn’t included.

Sherlock wasn’t sad. That wouldn’t be the word he would choose to describe it. He had known John wouldn’t have lied to him about Hamish, no matter how jealous he might be feeling. Sherlock clicked out of the webpage and twisted the ring that Hamish had given him on his finger.

He took a deep breath and walked back to the front area, where John and Greg were waiting for him. “We’ve got tickets back to London this afternoon,” Greg said by way of greeting. “I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say I am glad to be headed back with you in tow. You had us scared there for a while.”

Sherlock wanted to be dismissive of his words and his concern, but he couldn’t. The look on Lestrade’s face was enough to keep him quiet. “I’ve got…I have something I want to do before we go. There’s a shop, it’s on the way to the train station.  It sells tartan. I need to stop there.”

“Yeah, of course,” Greg said.

“Greg already packed up our things, and they’re waiting for us at the front desk of the inn,” John said as he stood, tugging down his jumper. “We’ll just hire a car to the station, make it easier.”

Sherlock nodded, not quite able to look at John. Lestrade heaved a heavy sigh and led them into the street, shaking his head a bit as he tucked his hands into his pockets. “I swear to god, if you two idiots spend the whole train ride back to London pretending that you don’t know the other exists I’m going to scream. I’m not kidding.”

“I’m not…”

“Lestrade, honestly…”

Greg whipped around, giving them both a hard stare. “John, if you don’t tell him how bloody frantic you were to find him in excruciating detail, I will. So help me god.”

“Not now,” John said through his teeth, pushing past Lestrade.

Sherlock watched John’s retreat hopelessly, and when he glanced back over to Lestrade the man looked like he wanted to throttle him, but was sad about it. “For a genius, you are such a fucking idiot,” Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock followed John’s path, trying his best to ignore Lestrade.

By the time they returned to the inn to gather their bags a black car had pulled up outside. “Ah, looks like my brother had decided to be of some use,” Sherlock said softly, but instantly regretted it. Neither John nor Lestrade looked back at him as they loaded everything into the car and Sherlock decided to just climb into the car. He fastened his seat belt and leaned his head against the window.

“Here,” John said as he opened the door, tossing his phone into his lap. “It turned on and you’ve got an absurd amount of messages. It beeped for ages.”

Sherlock stared down at it in his lap, not sure what he should do. The thought of going through all of his missed emails and messages was daunting, so he just tucked his phone away.

Lestrade settled down in the passenger seat and they were off. “So,” Sherlock began, watching Lestrade pull out his phone and begin typing out a message. “You and my brother?”

“Yeah, you don’t really get to say anything about it,” Lestrade drawled, turning around to shoot Sherlock a tight grin. “Actually, I think you’re not allowed to say anything for a while.”

Sherlock settled back into his seat, looking to John for support.

John did not offer any, which came as no surprise. “Welcome home,” he said instead.

“I was going to say congratulations,” Sherlock grumbled, but Lestrade lifted tossed him the V over his shoulder.

John laughed, which was a sound that Sherlock didn’t realize he has missed as much as he had.

 

They were at the tartan shop in no time. “I never thought I would be so grateful for cars,” Sherlock said as he opened the car door. He stopped, patting his pockets. “John, do you have my wallet? I didn’t have it when…”

“Yeah, here,” John said, unzipping one of his jacket pockets to hand it over to Sherlock. “I usually have it anyway.”

“Thank you,” he said with a relieved smile, bounding out of the car and into the small shop.

“I want a specific clan tartan,” he told the old man dozing behind the counter.

“Which clan are you lookin’ for?” the man asked. “I’ve got most of the major clans here, highlander and lowlander alike, and if I don’t have it in stock then I’ll have it shipped to you.”

“Clan Watson,” Sherlock said with a firm nod. “The ancient tartan, not the newer one. The colours are too bright in the new tartan.”

The old man tapped the side of his nose. “I think I’ve got what you’re looking for.”

It took less than ten minutes for Sherlock to make his purchase and get back into the car. He pulled out the length of tartan wool and wrapped it around his neck with a smile.

John watched him with an unreadable expression on his face as he did so. “That’s my…”

“I know,” Sherlock replied. “I needed a new scarf.”

“It’s nice,” John muttered, his ears going red. 

Sherlock smiled again as he rested his head on the glass. It wouldn’t be long now until they were back in London.

 

Another black car was waiting for them when they arrived at King’s Cross, and it took them straight to 221B. Mrs Hudson was weeping before she even laid eyes on Sherlock, and she wrapped him in a hug that knocked the breath from his lungs. He hugged her back and promised more than once that he wouldn’t do something so foolish again.

He wasn’t even entirely sure she knew what had happened, but he promised all the same.

He knew that Mycroft was in the living room, probably sitting in Sherlock’s armchair, but he prolonged that conversation by lugging his bag into his room and tossing it on the bed. After he had milked as much time out of that process as he could he walked back into the living room. Lestrade had moved over to Mycroft, who had turned a rather unflattering shade of puce as they spoke. John had taken his things upstairs and was coming back down about the time Mrs Hudson appeared with a tea tray.

“So I’ve been reliably informed that you figured out the ways and means of time travel,” Mycroft said, turning to study Sherlock. It was obvious that he was attempting to be stern, but it was tempered by his obvious relief that Sherlock was alive. “That is a phrase that I never thought I would ever say with a straight face.”

Sherlock snorted, taking a custard crème from the plate of biscuits Mrs Hudson had provided. “When I turned back up I was sure you’d all think I had gone on a bender that finally scrambled my brains. I’m glad… well, I am glad that I don’t have to spend a large amount of time trying to explain. Because it really is unexplainable.”

Greg crossed his arms over his chest with a shrug. “I was a bit disappointed in Scotland, to be honest. I was there off and on for a month, and there was a stunning lack of bagpipes. I feel like I’ve been lied to my entire life.”

 Sherlock offered an amused smirk and Mycroft ducked his head to hide his own. “Sherlock, do tell us when you plan on traveling through time and space again, won’t you? Out of everyone in the world, you are not someone I would trust to not manage to bungle up history. Do try to use this power for good?”

“It isn’t just me, it’s the stones…” Sherlock began, but Mycroft arched a brow at him in interest. “Never mind, I definitely don’t want you to be able to do it. You’d go back in time to marry Margaret Thatcher and I’d have to change my name.”

John laughed out loud at that, which drew an annoyed look from Mycroft.

“This has been grand but I think I’d like to go home now,” Lestrade said with a poorly concealed yawn.

“I am heading your direction, we can share the car,” Mycroft said, picking up his umbrella. “We have some business to discuss anyway, two birds with one stone.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, once again doing a rather believable show of being nonchalant. “I’m going to give you both a few weeks to settle back in and get your shit together. No crime scenes until then.”

Sherlock’s kneejerk response was to argue, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. He nodded and sank down on the sofa with a relieved sigh.

“John, thank you for your perseverance,” Mycroft said before turning to Sherlock. “And you… just… stay where you are.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Sherlock groaned.

Mycroft tutted and soon they were gone, leaving Sherlock and John alone in Baker Street.

“I think I’ll have a nap,” John said after a moment. “It’s been rather hard to sleep.”

“You’re having nightmares again,” Sherlock observed.

John nodded. “Maybe they’ll get better. Now that everything’s settled.”

“One should think so,” Sherlock replied. “John, you should know that more than once I accidentally used your name talking to him. In…in many ways he reminded me of you. He was different in a lot of ways as well, but… also very alike.”

John’s jaw worked for a moment. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel better or make me feel sorry for him,” he finally admitted.

“He’s dead, feel however you want,” Sherlock said with a shrug. And then his words hit him: Hamish was dead. Had been dead for a very long time.

“He had a son,” John said softly. “I don’t know if you saw that in the records, but he had a son named William. I’m descended from William S. S. Watson.”

He didn’t ask what the initials stood for. He already knew.

“I never knew your name was also a family name,” John said with a little laugh. “And who knows, maybe it wasn’t before. Thinking about this shit makes my brain hurt, but… there you go.”

Sherlock twisted the ring on his finger, looking over at John with a fond smile. “You should go rest. You’re dead on your feet.”

John nodded, but hesitated to move. He cleared his throat. “You’ll…you’ll still be here, when I wake up?”

Sherlock’s heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest and he nodded.

John heaved a sigh of relief before going upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me darlings, I promise things get settled. ;)
> 
> Also, this is the Watson tartan: http://www.scotlandshop.com/tartan.aspx/Watson-Ancient-Tartan-13657   
> (I am probably going to by myself a scarf in it because I am trash.) 
> 
> (And also Clan Watson was a lowland clan but suspend some disbelief for me okay? Okay.)


	27. Chapter 27

“Mrs Hudson wanted to host a dinner for everyone to celebrate you being back,” John said as he flipped through the newspaper a few days later.

Sherlock had been staring at his violin, composing in his head and considering getting up to get some paper. It was a waltz, he already knew, but John’s voice broke through the music. “What?” Sherlock asked, looking over at John.

“Don’t worry about it, I told her that you weren’t quite up for it,” John said with a shrug. “And I also didn’t tell her what happened, only that you had been injured and lost in the woods. So expect her to baby you more than usual.”

Sherlock nodded, settling back down on the sofa. “Thank you John.”

He listened to the rustle of the newspaper for a few minutes before Sherlock stood, planning on going back to his room. John cleared his throat and said, “Sherlock, we need to talk.”

Sherlock twisted his fingers in the belt of his dressing gown, but nodded. “I agree.” When John made no effort to move, Sherlock went to sit at the kitchen table with him. “How would you like this conversation to begin, exactly?”

John carefully folded the newspaper and laid it aside, folding his hands in front of himself. “I wanted to talk to you about the reason I wanted you to take the case in Scotland in the first place. Besides just wanting to go back to where my family was from, I mean. I… I wanted it to be a bit of a holiday, for the both of us.”

Sherlock nodded, crossing his legs under the table. “I was aware of that, yes. I am sorry I ruined that.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” John said with a dismissive wave. “But I had wanted to talk about something with you for a while and I thought it would be easier away from Baker Street.” 

Sherlock leaned back in his chair a bit, not quite looking at John. “I see.”

John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think you do. Sherlock, I have been… I have been struggling with the feelings I have for you for a long time. For years, if I’m being honest. I have never… I have never felt about a man like this before and I wasn’t sure if it was real or not. But the more that I thought about it I also realized that I have never felt for a woman the way I feel for you either.”

Sherlock wanted to argue that John had been love with women before; he would have had to have been in love with Mary when they got married. Instead he kept his mouth shut and nodded. “How…how long have you been…?” Sherlock cleared his throat. “How long have you had these feelings for me?”

“Since before Moriarty,” John admitted, wrapping his fingers around his mug of tea. “I didn’t put everything together until my wedding, actually. I happened to look at you when you were playing the song you wrote, and… and you left, before I could thank you. I was waiting for you to say something for a long time, but you didn’t. I talked to Greg about it a lot and I realized that I’m the one who would have to say something, to make the first move. So that’s what I was going to do. I wanted it to be special.”

Sherlock was still, heart pounding. He didn’t know what to say to John, but he knew he needed to say something. “John,” he finally said, turning his mercurial gaze to the blonde, who looked small and tired sitting next to him at the kitchen table. “I... there is no one I have ever been able to picture myself spending my life with but you. Everything in my life so easily shifted to place you at the centre, and I didn’t realize that the choices that I began to make were to ensure your happiness. I was willing to sacrifice what I wanted to ensure that you were happy, and that was the first time I had ever felt that way.”  

“I know,” John said softly, resting a hand on the table, fingers spread wide. “I know all of that. I saw all of that, I felt it. Believe me; I’ve given all of this a lot of thought. And I was beginning to think that I wouldn’t get the chance to tell you. I missed my first change when you jumped, and I was terrified that my second chance had been taken away as well. I don’t really want to live any longer without you knowing that I love you, alright? I love you and I don’t think I will ever be able to stop.”

John’s breathing was heightened a bit as he watched Sherlock. There was resignation evident in his face, resignation and hope.

“I love you too,” Sherlock said softly, reaching out to curl his fingers around John’s hand. “Everything about you. The way you care about me, how…how you make me feel. I missed you, very much, and I tried every day to get back here to you. And now I’m back and I don’t want to waste any more time misunderstanding each other. I will… I will tell you anything you want to know. I don’t want to hide anything from you.”

John swallowed thickly, lacing their fingers together. “I don’t want to know anything right now. Too jealous, if I’m being honest. I know it’s stupid, so you don’t have to tell me that. I have no right to say anything, this must have been how you…how you felt, all these years. Watching me going on dates, watching me get married. Jesus Christ.”

Sherlock did his best to hide his wince. “I won’t deny that, but I can’t say I didn’t care about him, John. And it wasn’t just because he reminded me of you. He was kind, and we…” he shrugged. “You cared about Mary too, despite everything. There’s nothing that can change any of what has happened. But now we’re here, together. And we have a chance to do what makes us happy.”

John nodded, offering him a slight smile. “We do. And I’m tired of feeling like I have to tiptoe around you, like you’re grieving some great love or whatever.”

Sherlock felt a wave of guilt settle in his stomach. “I’m grieving his loss, I won’t lie. He died, and based on how we left it I’m not sure if he ever found someone to…”

“To replace you.” John’s voice was soft. Sherlock nodded. “Maybe there’s just one of you, for all time. Maybe I just happen to be the lucky one who happened to exist when you did.”

Sherlock let out a half-laugh, half-sob. He wiped his eyes and looked over to John, who was watching him with sad eyes. John reached out, sliding his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone with a soft sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly, even though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for exactly.

“It’s okay,” John said with a little shrug, scooting his chair a bit closer so he could wrap Sherlock in a hug, holding him close. “It’s okay to be sad, and it’s okay to want me at the same time. Emotions are complicated, especially when you never really allowed yourself to feel them before. They tend to all come at once if you aren’t prepared.”

Sherlock let out a shuttering breath and nodded, brushing a kiss against John’s cheek.

John stopped breathing for a moment before pulling back slightly, eyes flicking from Sherlock’s eyes to his lips four times in quick succession. There was a moment of silent communication between them, a series of twitches and micro-expressions that felt like coming home, and John leaned forward to press their lips together.

John made a soft sound that Sherlock swallowed. One of John’s arms looped over Sherlock’s shoulders casually, every movement languid and sure. Sherlock’s fingertips explored John’s smooth, freshly-shaven cheek, and he could smell the lingering scent of shaving cream on his skin.

He expected it to be too much, like kissing Hamish had been. Hamish had kissed him with desperation and with need, while John…John kissed him like they had the rest of their lives to explore each other. Sherlock supposed they had and he allowed his brain to shut down completely, thinking only of the gentle rhythm John’s mouth created against his.

Just as John was the one to initiate the kiss he was the one to pull back first. Sherlock’s eyes had fallen closed-- he wasn’t sure when that had happened-- and he felt John’s fingertips against the soft, fragile skin of his eyelid. “You should eat something,” John said softly. His voice was low and tinged with desire and with overwhelming adoration.

Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.

John smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “I quite like your hair longer like this. You look a bit like Jim Morrison.”

A smile grew on Sherlock’s face, even though he had no idea who this Morrison bloke was. “A beard would suit you, you know. Not a moustache, mind. A proper beard.”

John shook his head, standing to start on toast for Sherlock. “I’ll grow one if you let your hair grow a bit more.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, eyes trailing along the neatly trimmed hair at the base of John’s neck. “It isn’t worth it.”

John chuckled. “Thought not.”

Sherlock settled into his seat at the kitchen table and propped his legs up on the table top. He allowed himself to look at John as a lover and not as a friend for the first time. It was liberating, if he were being honest with himself. His eyes lingered on John’s shoulders, which were straight and sure, before sliding down the upright line of his spine. John’s carriage had always been that of a soldier; often he stood in the parade rest stance without even realizing. He was rarely as at ease as he was then in the kitchen, popping bread into the toaster and cracking a few eggs in a pan to fry them up for Sherlock.

Sherlock felt warm and safe and comfortable like this, and he pulled John’s abandoned mug of tea closer to take a sip. He was glad that John felt at ease here with him, when he so rarely found ease in the world at all.

They were both home, at last.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sexy-times in this chapter. Be warned!

Mrs Hudson had offered to come clean up their flat but Sherlock refused to allow it. He had not heard from Lestrade about the possibility of returning to the Met to assist with cases, so he had plenty of time. John had reluctantly returned to work, making sure his shifts were short and checking in with Sherlock regularly throughout the day.

Sherlock didn’t let much time pass before he returned the messages. He didn’t want to worry John any more than necessary.

So Sherlock had been working on cleaning the flat. He tossed old takeaway containers and papers that they no longer needed before moving on to clean out the refrigerator. John always seemed to be the most vocal about the state of the refrigerator.

After taking all of the garbage downstairs to put it in the bin outside, he decided to tackle cleaning his room. He had not set time aside to clean his room since returning home and he first stripped the sheets and blankets off of the bed, putting them in the wash. He noticed a bit of fabric poking out from under his mattress and pulled, frowning a bit.

It was one of John’s t-shirts. It appeared to have fallen to the floor from the bed and had been inadvertently cast aside where it had sat gathering dust since. Sherlock held it, staring down at the faded heather grey of the fabric.

But how did it get here? John always did his own laundry and they had separate baskets because of that, so there was very little chance that it could have accidentally ended up amid Sherlock’s clean clothes. And it didn’t smell clean—the scent of washing powder and fabric softener had faded from the shirt and the overwhelming scent it held was of John.

A memory came back to him, of the first night he had spent in his own bed since coming back from Scotland. He had climbed into bed and laid his head on the pillow with a content sigh, burrowing into the crisp sheets as he got comfortable. He took a deep breath through his nose and smelled something that was not familiar to the scent profile of his bedroom. He shifted his head a bit to try to find the source of the scent, and it seemed to be centred on Sherlock’s pillow most potently.

It was a familiar smell, and it only took a few moments flipping through the scent catalogue in his mind palace to pin it down: It was John, most specifically John’s hair.

The image of John sleeping in his bed while he was away sent a strange wave of pleasure through Sherlock’s body at the time, and it was part of the reason that Sherlock had waited so long to wash his sheets.

It didn’t take the scent long to be replaced with the more familiar scent of Sherlock’s shampoo. He had thought that all of John’s scent would be eradicated when he washed his sheets, but he held on to a shirt that John had left behind.

He carefully folded it and laid it on his bedside table. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep it tucked under his pillow to sleep or if he wanted to work it into his wardrobe. He wondered if John would notice.

He shook his head a bit and went back into the living room for his phone.

_John, I’ve an appointment for a hair cut in a few hours. I can meet you at the clinic and we can go for dinner after you’re off? SH_

He slipped his phone into his pocket and went to wash the few dishes that had accumulated in the sink.  As he washed he plotted his walking path to the salon. Despite John’s obvious admiration of his longer curls, Sherlock couldn’t stand them: they had almost reached the point that he could put them into a small ponytail.

He was struck with the unbidden thought of Hamish the last night they spent together, of Sherlock removing the length of leather to slide his fingers through his long, wavy blonde hair. Sherlock clenched his teeth as he wiped the dishes dry with a towel, putting them away. He felt his skin heat at the memory of Hamish’s hands on his skin, and he startled a bit when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was John.

_:( JW_

_Yeah, sounds good. JW_

He put his phone back into his pocket and went to put on his coat and tartan scarf. He had a few hours still before he was expected at the salon, but he wanted to take his time with his walk so that he could relearn and reclaim his city.

He smiled with anticipation.

 

Sherlock’s hair was slightly shorter than he usually wore it, and he could tell by the look on John’s face that he noticed.

John held the door open for him at the Thai restaurant they ducked into for dinner, and they were shown to a table near the back. John’s knee bumped against Sherlock’s under the table and when Sherlock looked over at him he winked.

“What?” Sherlock asked, picking up his menu.

“I like the haircut,” John said with a smile. “You look older, more distinguished.”

Sherlock arched a brow. “Are you telling me I look old? I’m not the one with grey in my hair.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “You know that wasn’t what I was saying.”

“Yes, but what you said is what you would have said before, when you were pretending that you didn’t have feelings for me,” Sherlock said, studying John’s face.

John went red and shrugged. “You look sexy. Happy?”

Sherlock hummed, waving over the waitress. “Very.”

John laughed. “Smug bastard.”

They ordered with their feet tangled beneath the table.

 

John had a couple of beers with his food and Sherlock watched him openly. When John realized he went red and stayed that way. Sherlock ate a good amount of his yellow curry, thankful for food that actually had flavour that wasn’t from the inclusion of intestines.

The check was paid and John insisted on a taxi. He also insisted that Sherlock hail it, as he was better at doing so with his height. As Sherlock lifted an arm to hail a cab he wrapped his other hand around John’s bicep, squeezing it.

They were soon bundled into a cab, and John made sure they were pressed shoulder to hip even though they had plenty of room in the back of the car. John’s eyes kept checking in with Sherlock, the deep blue somehow even deeper with desire.

Sherlock’s body burned with anticipation. He wanted to wrap an arm around John, pull him closer, perhaps into his lap, but he would rather not be tossed out of a cab and be forced to walk. His hands were shaking slightly when he paid and John crowded him against the door as he tried to get the key into the lock. “Give me a second,” Sherlock hissed as John laid his head between his shoulder blades, arms sliding around his waist. “I can’t focus.”

“I’m not even trying to distract you,” John replied with a chuckle. 

“It would be easier to ignore it if you were trying,” Sherlock admitted as the door finally sprung open and Sherlock slipped out of John’s grasp to climb up the stairs. John waited a few paces before he started up as well. “Stop staring at my arse,” Sherlock called over his shoulder.

John laughed again, louder this time. “I wasn’t,” he said. “Can’t see it, your coat is covering it. I will have to wait until you take your coat off to stare properly.”

It was much easier to unlock the door to their flat, and Sherlock tossed his keys onto the coffee table in the living room before shrugging out of his coat and scarf. John took his jacket off as well, hanging it beside Sherlock’s on the coat rack by the door.

“I’m going to go change into pyjamas and brush my teeth,” John said softly, unbuttoning his cardigan.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Sherlock said softly. “I’d rather you just come to bed.”

John’s hands stilled and he looked over to Sherlock. “You… you want to? Tonight? You know I don’t mind…”

“I want to have sex,” Sherlock said, taking a step toward John. “With you. Tonight, perhaps tomorrow as well. I want you to sleep with me in my room; I don’t know why you insist on sleeping upstairs.”

“My nightmares…”

“Have almost disappeared again,” Sherlock said softly. “And I can soothe them if need be.”

John swallowed thickly. “I didn’t know it was something you… you wanted.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Do we have to have this conversation right now? John, I want to have sex with you. I would like to know what it feels like to have you inside of me, I want to know…”

“Yes, yes alright I get the picture,” John cut in, his voice breathless and shaking a bit. “Jesus Christ, there are reasons people just don’t come out and say all of that.”

“Those reasons are stupid,” Sherlock quipped, toeing off his shoes. He turned to go to his room and let out a sigh. “I forgot about my sheets in the wash. How could I have forgotten about my sheets being in the wash?”

John clicked his tongue. “Mr Sherlock Holmes got distracted,” he said with a bit of wonder. “Mark the calendar.”

“You aren’t helping,” Sherlock snapped before heading towards the stairs. “I suppose we’ll have to use your room, prison cell as it is…oh…” he flushed a bit as he went back to his coat, pulling a small paper bag from one of the pockets before tossing it to John. 

John peeked inside with a smirk before looking back over to Sherlock. “You’ve been planning this all day, haven’t you?”

Sherlock arched a brow, his hands on his hips. “For someone who claims to understand they have to make the first move, you were coming up rather lacking. So I suppose in this case I shall take the responsibility.”

John’s eyes studied the living room for a moment before sliding to the stairs to his room. “How loud are you?” he finally asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I have never done what I’m asking you to do, so I don’t have adequate data to answer that question.”

“Fuck,” John said, closing his eyes for a second to steady himself. “My room then, just in case.”

He let John make it up the staircase and into his room before he took the stairs two at a time. John has managed to shrug out of his cardigan and was working on the buttons of his shirt when Sherlock pressed in, brushing his hands away. When he reached the waistline of John’s trousers he unfastened them but did not push them down- he simply finished his task and pushed John’s shirt off his shoulders.

To uncover yet another shirt. This one was sleeveless and white, and Sherlock let out an impatient sigh. “It keeps people from being able to see my scar through my lighter coloured shirts,” John said by way of explanation.

“You wear too many clothes,” Sherlock grumbled as he tugged the undershirt over John’s head, mussing his hair a bit in the process. That was on thing the Scots had right—minimal clothing. It made this sort of thing much easier. “How many pairs of pants are you wearing? I just want to prepare myself.”

“The normal number of…” John began but then looked down. “Ah, well. No pants, actually.”

Sherlock glanced down and sure enough he could see, below the slight swell of a stomach that John had developed in the past few years, a trail of trimmed blonde hair that was not obscured by any fabric save the corduroy trousers John had chosen for the day. “Why?” Sherlock asked after a moment, looking back to John’s face.

He expected John to be blushing but he shrugged. “I usually don’t wear them unless I’m wearing jeans or sleeping. Or if I expect I’m going to be running after you a lot.”

Sherlock was suddenly struck by the number of times he had been with John when the other man had not been wearing pants, how there had only been one layer of fabric between his cock and the rest of the world. Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded. “Right…” Sherlock finally said as John made quick work of Sherlock’s own silk blend shirt, tugging it free of the waist of his trousers and tossing it aside before working on the zip and button.

“You wear briefs, don’t you?” John asked. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the line of a perfectly good suit.” When Sherlock made no move to respond he asked, “Will you turn around for me? I’d like to take this opportunity to stare at your arse.”

Sherlock let out a short, breathless laugh but did as John asked. John first gave Sherlock’s trousers the final tug they needed to fall to the ground before he rested a hand on Sherlock’s hip to urge him to step out of the pool they left. He was, indeed, wearing black briefs that were also a silk blend. John’s fingers smoothed over the fabric a couple of times before he hooked his thumbs through the waistband and tugged them down.

Sherlock felt his half-hard cock spring free and he blushed, grateful that John hadn’t seen how quickly this exercise had left him aroused. John was no longer touching him and Sherlock lowered his head, holding his breath for some comment, for John to change his mind, perhaps. He half-turned to see John with his hand wrapped around his cock, giving it a few strokes as he kicked out of his trousers. “Sorry, you’re just… really fucking beautiful,” John said, colour high on his cheeks and staining his ears.

“Be that as it may,” Sherlock sighed, reaching for the paper bag. John had abandoned it on the bedside table, and without hesitation Sherlock dumped the contents onto the bed, going for the lube first. He removed the seal and popped open the lid. “Shall I do this or would you like to?”

“Me,” John replied, holding out his hand to take the bottle. “How…?”

“I think on my knees would be best to start,” Sherlock said, smiling widely at the soft sound John made at the words. “Then I think I would like to be on top of you.”

“If that’s what you want, I’m definitely not going to argue,” John replied, watching with rapt fascination as Sherlock climbed to the bed, spreading his knees a bit and letting his head fall. “Oh my god, how can you have never done this before?”

Sherlock chuckled, some of the tension in his body falling away. John sounded as lost as Sherlock himself felt, which was a blessing. As playful as they had been with each other, this was a point of no return. Sherlock pressed his forehead against his forearm as he felt John’s hand settle against his hip. “Is this okay, John?”

“Okay, more than okay,” John said softly. “If you want me to stop just say, okay? I’ll stop.”

Sherlock sighed, squeezing his eyes closed. “I’m not going to want you to stop,” he said, his voice low.

John was shifting behind him. He heard the sound of the bottle of lube opening, then snapping closed again. He let out a soft sound when he felt John’s thumb circle his entrance, smoothing over the pucker of muscle. Sherlock’s heart began to pound harder in his chest and he tried his best not to press back against John’s hand, not wanting to seem too desperate.

John’s breathing was starting to grow ragged and he gently pressed, breaching Sherlock’s body just slightly before pulling his finger back out. Sherlock heard the bottle of lube open again and made a soft whimpering sound when John pressed two fingers inside of him slowly.

He felt pain initially, his muscles fighting against the intrusion, but John gave him time. John was an infinitely patient man. “H…have you…?”

“I’ve had girlfriends who enjoyed anal sex, yes,” John replied, not letting Sherlock complete the question. 

Sherlock nodded, arching his spine slightly as John took him apart slowly. “I think I’m ready,” Sherlock drawled, pushing at John’s arm. His cock had been leaking steadily since John had found his prostate and it was torturous, achingly so.

John slid off the bed and Sherlock sat back on his heels, watching him go for a condom before returning to the bed. He tore open the package with his teeth and leaned back against the wall. “Stop looking at me like that,” John said with a breathless laugh, averting his eyes from Sherlock as he rolled the condom on.

“How am I looking at you?” Sherlock asked as he stood up on his knees, inching towards John. He slid his hands over his shoulders and down his arms before he tangled their fingers together.

“Like you’re afraid I’m going to disappear,” John replied, leaning forward to brush his lips against Sherlock’s. They kissed as Sherlock reached between them to guide John into his body, sinking further down as his body relaxed to allow it.

What had once been kisses began to better resemble panting into each other’s mouths as John drew up his legs, digging his heels into the bed as he fucked up into Sherlock’s body, forcing soft grunts from his throat.

Sherlock braced his hands against the wall as their pace quickened. John clung to him, hands not content to settle on one bit of Sherlock’s body. “Want to fuck my hand?” John asked into the cavern of Sherlock’s mouth, but he didn’t wait for an answer before wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s erection. His fingers were still slick with lube and Sherlock shivered.

He was close, so bloody close that he didn’t get a chance to warn John that he was going to come. His entire body shuttered and he pulled John’s face into his chest, holding him there.

John was whispering something against his skin, still stroking Sherlock’s twitching cock as he thrust a handful more times. Sherlock could feel John get impossibly harder inside of him and winced a bit as his final thrust rammed into his oversensitive prostate.

They stayed like that, clinging to one another as their sweat dried and their breathing slowed. When Sherlock’s thighs began to protest he sat up, settling down next to John in his bed. John followed, rolling onto his side so that they were face to face. He was not willing to stop touching Sherlock, and Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

“You’re covered in semen,” Sherlock said with a slight grin, swiping at an errant drop near his nipple. “I should have worn a condom as well.”

“I’m really glad you didn’t,” John said and Jesus, Sherlock wasn’t sure it was possible for him to blush any deeper. “Don’t attempt to solve that one; I’d rather not know why I enjoy it.”

Sherlock hummed, pressing his face into John’s neck while the other man deftly removed his own condom and tossed it aside. “We should shower before it dries,” Sherlock said softly, but made no effort to move.

John hummed, but when Sherlock looked up at his face it was already relaxed with sleep. Sherlock closed his eyes and tugged a blanket over their bodies instead.

A shower could wait.

 

When Sherlock awoke John was holding his hand, twisting the ring that Hamish had put theref. “He gave you this ring?” John asked, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles.

Sherlock nodded. “By all accounts it should be yours, I suppose. It’s your family crest, after all.”

“Nah, he wanted you to have it. Who am I to argue with that?”

Sherlock stroked the thatch of chest hair between John’s pectorals silently, not sure what to say. He sighed, sitting up. “I need the loo,” he said softly, climbing over John.

Sherlock snatched his pants off of the ground before going downstairs. He wet a cloth after emptying his bladder, trying to wipe away the dried come on his stomach.

After he had wiped away all that he could fine he pulled on his pants and got a dressing gown off the back of the bathroom door, tying the belt as he walked back into the flat proper. John was padding down the stairs in his pants and a t-shirt. “I think I’ll have a quick shower,” he said with a smile. “Would you mind putting on some tea?”

Sherlock nodded, watching him disappear into the loo. He didn’t move to the kitchen until he heard the shower kick on, and he flipped the kettle on before going back to the living room.  He pulled out the sheet music he had begun to transpose, fishing a pencil out of the sofa cushions.  He hummed under his breath as he wrote down the next few notes, his fingers tapping out the rhythm on his knee.

The kettle whistled and he jumped slightly. He had nearly forgotten about it. He laid aside the music and went to the kitchen, dropping a bag each into their cups before pouring water over them. The shower had switched off and the door opened as Sherlock was stirring sugar into his tea.

John poured a splash of milk into his tea before taking it to the living room, dropping into his chair. “Come here, I want you to tell me about this Hamish bloke.”

Sherlock blew a steady stream of air over the rim of his cup before going to the living room. “Why?”

John shrugged. “I want to know about him. What he was like. I find it hard to believe that there are traits that we share that are genetic, that far removed. Not sure the Watson genes are that strong, to be honest.”

Sherlock sank down on the sofa, resting his tea cup on his knee. “That nose has been there for generations. As well as the stubbornness. And… and the self-sacrificing nature. He was a soldier too, in his own way. Always fighting for something.”

John nodded, taking a drink of his tea. It was clear he was mulling over the information, trying to decide what he wanted to ask next. He crossed his legs and cleared his throat. “So… all it said in the histories was true? Escaped from punishment, tormented by a British Captain, on the run for ages? And the escape from prison, that… that was…?”

“Not completely my idea, but I helped,” Sherlock said with a grin. “He was in a right state, but I got him pardoned by what happened to be an ancestor of mine. He looked like Myroft would have looked had he not lost weight in University. It was all very bizarre.”

John burst out laughing, and Sherlock soon followed suit. They settled back into silence after a minute and John took another sip of his tea. “So… there… so no one forced you to do anything you…you didn’t want to do?”

“No,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. “People tried, but I…I fought.”

“Good. I might have had to figure out how to travel back in time just to kill them myself, otherwise.”

Sherlock grinned. “I’m fine. But thanks for that.”

John finished his tea, setting his empty cup aside. “Right. Well. Breakfast?”

He stood, going into the kitchen and opening the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs. Sherlock watched him in silence for a bit, a knot twisting in his stomach. Finally he said, “I know how to go back. It’s possible to go back. It can only happen during the full moon, but it can happen.”

John opened a cupboard to get out a tin of beans. He turned back towards Sherlock slightly, trying to remain expressionless as he asked, “And would you like to go back? If you could?”

Sherlock shrugged, considering the question carefully. He would, of course he would. He would like to keep Hamish from dying on a battlefield, keep him from leaving behind his young son and whoever he had found to love. Let him live in peace with his family and farm his land if at all possible. He would do so in a heartbeat if he could.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then released it. “No,” he finally said.

John hummed, lowering his head to open the tin of beans.

The lie hung heavy in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am working on the final chapter/epilogue of this story as we speak, so there may be a bit of a delay with the final two updates. Thanks so much for sticking with me, guys!
> 
> Also...I totally bought a Watson tartan scarf. From this website: http://www.proudlyscottish.com/acatalog/Tartan_Scarves.html. They have a ton of different Tartans!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I set myself up to have this be 30 chapters...but the Epilogue got too long for one chapter. 29 was short, so I decided to put the first part of the epilogue with it. Enjoy these last two chapters!

Time passed quickly. Before either of them realized it three months had passed, and life had settled back to normal. There were a few adjustments, namely regular sex and sharing a bed downstairs. John’s nightmares had again abated and things were good.

Sherlock had picked up the pieces of the case that had taken them to Scotland in the first place and it only took a matter of days to solve it. He sent all of the proof and paperwork to the woman who had hired them, and waived the agreed-upon fee. He supposed that the passage of four months was enough of a reason to do so.

After finishing that case he caught up on all of his correspondence, sifting through the dull ones and prioritizing the others. He would talk them over with John whenever he returned from work. They could decide which ones seemed like they had the most potential. Lestrade had texted him a couple of times but the criminal class in London had been frightfully dull since his return.

He had stopped getting responses from Lestrade when he asked him how Mycroft had been doing. It was worth the laugh and the scolding text that Mycroft sent later.

When John’s birthday arrived they spend it at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had sent them up a roast and Sherlock had picked up a cake at a bakery a few blocks away. John was pleased in the quiet way he was always pleased.

When they sat down to dinner John cleared his throat, fingers toying with his fork. Sherlock knew by the tension in his body that he was about to do something important. He only figured out what John was going to say right before he opened his mouth to say it.

“Do you think… I mean, have you given thought to getting married?” John asked, his flush starting at his neck and working upward. “I know it hasn’t been long, at least not officially, but… I also know that I want to be with you, and I want to be the one who they call when you get hurt, or arrested. I want to be…more, I suppose. Forever.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “I hadn’t thought about it much, no,” he replied truthfully. John deflated a bit but Sherlock pressed on. “That’s not to say that I don’t want to. But the act of doing so has never really seemed all that important to me. But I can… John, I want it. Of course I do.”

John let out a relieved sigh, picking up his fork. “Alright, good. That’s good.” He was trying his best to reign in his smile, but he was having a difficult time of it. Sherlock was rather pleased to note so.

“Would you like to go tomorrow?” Sherlock asked before taking a bite of potato, watching John’s face, which worked through a series of emotions in quick succession.

“I suppose that would make our anniversary easy to remember. The day after my birthday.”

Sherlock lifted one corner of his mouth into a smile. “A belated birthday present, as it were.”

John bit his lip, swirling his glass of wine as he considered it. He took a sip and placed the glass down deliberately before saying. “You don’t think it’s mad? Deciding to get married and doing it the next day?”

Sherlock bumped his foot against John’s under the table. “When have I ever been anything but?”

John laughed outright, and everything in Sherlock’s body ached with the strength of his love for him. When John looked back at him, he saw every bit of it reflected back at him. “Alright. We’ll go tomorrow. Do you want to invite anyone?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Mrs Hudson will just cry. Mycroft will say we’re making a terrible mistake. Maybe Lestrade. To be the witness.”

John nodded. “I’ll see if he can manage it. Though I will say that Mrs Hudson will be terribly cross we didn’t ask her to come. She might hit you. Hell, she might hit _me._ ”

“We’ll see,” Sherlock finally relented, reaching out to take John’s free hand. “Happy birthday, John.”

John lowered his head slightly _,_ squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Thank you. I… it means a lot.”

Sherlock smiled, lacing their fingers together. “I love you,” he said in a quiet tone, realizing all at once that he had not said those words to anyone but immediate family. Ever. They felt strange on his tongue, foreign and heavy, but saying them felt right.

“I love you too,” John replied, and when John said those words it sounded like a waltz.

 

Sherlock had never really been one for jewellery. In fact, he had always poked fun at Mycroft for the ring he wore on his finger. Now Sherlock wore two rings, one on each hand. The one on his left finger was gold; a simple band that held so much more meaning than its unadorned appearance suggested. The one on his right was just as significant. It held a reminder of what had finally brought him to accept his feelings for John, even if it meant developing feelings for someone else in the interim.

Both rings were important to him, and he felt loathe to ever part with either of them, as ridiculous as it might have seemed. He often found himself catching a glimpse of his wedding ring in particular out of the corner of his eye. Its highly-polished gold would flash in the sunlight and his eyes would be drawn to it, savouring the warmth he felt in his stomach at the sight of it. If John were nearby he would reach out for him, for his hand or arm or whatever part of his body was closest. John would always come willingly, curious but not questioning Sherlock’s sudden rush of affection. If John were not with him he would spin the ring on his finger with his thumb a few times, smile to himself, and go about his day with the reassurance that John had promised him to always be there.

The night of their wedding had been just theirs. They planned to have a reception the following weekend, inviting only those closest to them, but after they signed the paperwork that declared them legally wed, (with both Mrs Hudson and Lestrade as witnesses), they went home. Sherlock tried to cook them dinner but ended up burning the pasta when he had been distracted by John’s mouth and hands and sly smile.

They sucked each other off in the kitchen and ordered takeaway instead, curling up together on the sofa in the living room. After their take out containers had been abandoned they went to bed, where they took their time and enjoyed every second and every touch.

They had both orgasmed more times than anyone their age had any right to and the sun was beginning to poke over the horizon before they succumbed to sleep, Sherlock’s knee tucked between John’s and his head pillowed on his chest.

The spent the entire next day in bed as well, only emerging to get water and a meal when John’s stomach growled too loudly to be ignored.

 

Things shifted when Sherlock came back from a case on a Saturday afternoon to see an envelope lying on the kitchen counter. “What is this?”

“Tickets,” John replied from his armchair in the living room, glancing up from the newspaper. “To Scotland. There’s a full moon in three days and I thought…well, honeymoon and all that. And maybe…I mean maybe we can try to go and keep Hamish from dying. If you want.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “That wouldn’t work,” he replied, his voice sounding harsher than he intended it to. “There’s no telling where we would come out. It could be in the middle of the bloody war. Gellis told me that travellers had been killed in the past. It’s too dangerous.”

“If we get there and the year isn’t right then we can turn around and come back, no harm done. But if the time is right we can help the Watsons relocate, get set up in a new place.”

Sherlock’s hands shook as he looked down at the envelope that held the tickets. “What happens if only one of us goes through? What if I am alone again? I don’t want to be alone again, John.”

“If you are the only one who goes through just touch the stone and come back,” John replied, watching Sherlock with a guarded expression. “ I will be waiting for you, and vice versa.”

Sherlock took a few deep breaths through his nose. “Why are you doing this?” he finally asked, crossing into the living room to stand in front of John, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s dangerous, and it’s uncertain. Anything could go wrong.”

John carefully folded the paper and laid it aside. “Life is dangerous and uncertain, Sherlock. What you do every day with your job is dangerous and uncertain. I love you, but I think you feel responsible for him, and for his happiness. If you have a chance to help him, I think you should. And if I can help you I will. Of course I will.”

Sherlock sank down in his chair, lowering his face into his hands. His brain ached with his racing thoughts, everything clamouring for attention at once. “I…I don’t know, John. What about cases? What about your job?”

“We tell everyone we are going on our honeymoon and no one’s the wiser. I post something on my blog. We can keep track of days and make it back to the stones by the next full moon. I’ve given it a lot of thought, Sherlock. I think we should. We should at least try.”

Sherlock nodded, albeit hesitantly. “Maybe. I have to think about it.”

John stretched his legs out with a sigh. “We leave tomorrow afternoon. Not much time to think about it, love.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit at John, who was smirking. “You manipulative bastard. I think you just want to meet him.”

John shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I think his son deserves a father.”

Sherlock’s stomach flipped. His eyes slid over to the tartan scarf handing with his coat and he nodded once. “We can try,” he relented. His voice was soft.

“Okay. Good.”

Sherlock sighed as he studied John for a moment. “You have no idea what you’re in for, you realize that?”

John stood, going to rinse out his abandoned tea cup. “I survived Afghanistan, I doubt Scotland will prove much more challenging.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

 

Sherlock didn’t sleep well. He made it a point to lie still so as not to disturb John, but nothing he did could slow his racing thoughts.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” John said softly from beside him, rolling over to wrap an arm around Sherlock. “You should maybe stop doing that.”

“That’s like telling you to stop being a smart arse,” Sherlock quipped back without venom. John chuckled and pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder.

“Here, come on,” John said softly, shifting so that he was on top of Sherlock, peppering his chest with kisses before returning to the touchstone of his lips. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, fingers splaying over the smooth mound of scar tissue that covered his left shoulder.

John rocked down against him, which prompted Sherlock to wrap his legs around John’s hips. The brush of John’s skin against his set his nerve endings on fire and he pulled him closer, impossibly closer. “John…” he sighed against his lips as John kissed down his neck while his hands traced circles over the delicate skin of Sherlock’s inner arm, the crux of his elbows, his ribs, everywhere he could reach.

“I want you to turn over,” John said softly as he pulled back, sliding his hands down Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock did so, burying his face in his pillow as John kicked away the blankets, returning to Sherlock’s body with a kiss pressed to the base of his skull. He pressed open-mouthed kisses all the way down Sherlock’s spine, sucking the skin between his lips lightly on occasion. When he reached the base of his spine he scraped his teeth over the swell of Sherlock’s arse, gently pulling the cheeks apart to continue his trail.

When Sherlock felt the wet slide of John’s tongue against his entrance he held his breath. When the press of his tongue came again and again Sherlock let out a shaking breath, pressing his hips against the mattress in desperate need of friction.

John toyed with the muscle for a bit, circling Sherlock’s entrance with his tongue before dipping in. Sherlock could feel his entrance fluttering, begging for more as he clung to the sheets. The pillowcase was already wet from his panting, and he wasn’t sure whether to press up against John or grind down against the mattress. It was both too much and not enough.

“I need…I…” Sherlock began, but John seemed to read his mind. He pulled back long enough to reach for the lube on the bedside table. He slicked up his fingers before pressing them into Sherlock’s body, expertly hooking his fingers to find _god, that spot_ , and soon Sherlock’s cock was dribbling as John massaged his prostate, smoothing his free hand up and down his side.

“Think about this, and only this,” John said, his voice low as he fucked Sherlock with his fingers, using more precision that he ever could have with his cock. “Think about how you feel right now, yeah? How it feels to have my hand inside of you, playing you like your bloody violin. Think about how hard I am just from watching you, just from the way you feel against my fingertips.” John sped up the pace of his hand, his breaths shaky as he said, “Think about how much I love you.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He came with a shout into his pillow. He heard John curse behind him before he felt his fingers slip free of Sherlock’s body. He was still trembling when he felt a hot jet of come land on his arse, then his thigh, but Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

“God you’re beautiful,” John sighed, and Sherlock turned his face slightly to look at his husband in the darkness. He caught the glint of John’s eyes illuminated by the streetlamps outside, but it was too dark to make out features. John seemed reluctant when he wiped away his come from Sherlock’s arse, but he was grateful when John settled down on top of him, reaching out to hold his left hand in his. Their rings knocked together and Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s sweaty hairline.

“I love you, John Watson,” he said, his tone drowsy. His brain had effectively shut down, and it was glorious.

“I love you too,” John hummed, and held on to Sherlock more tightly. 

 

Epilogue- Part I

 

They decided to make it to the standing stones after a takeaway dinner in Craigh na Dun, just as the sun began its downward journey. They sat together on the bed, passing their Indian takeaway container s back and forth. They hadn’t been booked in a room that John had stayed in before, which was surprising since he had been in the same room both times he had stayed in the inn. Rather than being decorated with busy flower-printed wallpaper, this one was decorated with paintings of water fowl and hunting parties. It was nice.

“Thank god for this, the food in the past is so bland,” Sherlock said as he took another bite. John chuckled as he popped a paneer into his mouth. Sherlock curled closer to John after he put away his empty takeaway box.

“So I went ahead and paid for the room through the week,” John said as he reached for his beer, taking a swig. “Just in case we need to head back. She seemed more than happy to rent to us longer, so at least that’s one thing we won’t have to worry about.” Sherlock didn’t say anything in response; he just climbed out of bed and began repacking their bags. 

John set to work gathering up all of their empty takeout containers and soon their bags were packed. John led them out on foot, walking to the standing stones with Sherlock in his wake. John chattered along the way about everything from the weather to a joke he had overheard down in the pub the last time he spent time with Greg. He could tell that Sherlock wasn’t really listening, as each time he turned slightly to check with his husband he had grown a shade paler.  

“Sherlock, love, we’re going to be alright,” John said, hanging back so that he fell into step beside him. “We can handle it together, and if we have a chance to make things better for Hamish and his sister and all of them, then it will have been worth it.” Sherlock nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. John sighed and turned back to the stones. He couldn’t say that he was looking forward to the trip, not really, but he saw the opportunity that it provided.

When they made it to the stones Sherlock swallowed thickly beside him, reaching out for John’s hand. “We should touch them at the same time. Think about…think about going with me, okay? I’ll picture the time and place and you just ask to come with me,” Sherlock said in a rush.

John nodded, shifting the bag’s strap on his bad shoulder. “Okay, I can do that.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Right, don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” John promised, pressing a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“Ready?” Sherlock looked slightly green.

John nodded. “Yeah, ready. One…two…”

They said three in unison, and both laid their hand on the stone. 

 

John woke up with his pack pillowed beneath his head. His hand was outstretched but empty, and he sat up quickly, his head spinning. “Sherlock?” he called, struggling to his feet.

“Here, I’m here,” Sherlock replied from somewhere to his left. He was already sitting up on his knees, a look of relief washing over his face. “Oh thank god, John. I thought…”

John pulled his backpack back on before he went over to help Sherlock, who seemed frantic as he laid his hands on John’s cheeks. “I’m okay, we’re okay,” John reassured him, and Sherlock flushed, nodding.

“We should head into Craigh na Dun,” Sherlock said softly, picking up his own pack. “Find out what time it is and head back this way if we ended up in the wrong time. The journey shouldn’t be that difficult.”

John nodded, following as Sherlock started back the direction they had come. The sky looked different than it had before. It was cloud free and shot through with purples and pinks as the sun began to set. It was beautiful, and John wondered if his phone would work long enough to take a picture. He had turned it off before they had come through and tucked it away in an interior pocket of his pack. He decided against trying for no other reason than he didn’t want to have to dig it out of the depths.

It took longer to get to Craigh na Dun than it had before, but that was mostly because it was much smaller than it was in their own time. The first farm that they came to Sherlock went to the door, offering a couple of bottles of wine in exchange for a horse. As they walked to the paddock that held the horses, Sherlock asked the year.

“The year of our lord 1745,” the farmer replied as he studied the labels of the wine with a frown. John was grateful that they had opted to pick up French wines so that the labels were in a language that a common person wouldn’t understand.

Sherlock turned to John and nodded as they inspected the horse the farmer was offering them.

It was a young stallion, a bit wild but willing to take a saddle. They loaded their packs, fastening them securely, and John stepped back. “Do you want me to ride up front or you?”

“I’ve ridden more recently, you can ride behind me and hold on,” Sherlock said, climbing into the saddle and holding out his hand for John.

John offered him a slight smile and took it, settling in behind Sherlock. The horse started a bit and John tightened the grip with his knees and around Sherlock’s waist. “We can ride a bit and set up camp, the weather seems nice enough and we’ve got sleeping bags. It might be better than anything the town has to offer.”

“That’s fine with me,” John replied, and Sherlock steered his horse southward, towards Clan Watson’s land. “How far of a ride is it?”

“It took us an entire day’s ride,” Sherlock called over his shoulder. “And we won’t make it far before it’s too dark to ride. Probably only a couple of miles. If we stay riding due south and stay close to water and will run right into it.”

Sherlock was right about them not being able to make it far. They found a clearing near water and tied the horse there, close enough to drink. John unfurled their sleeping bags and dug out a bag of trail mix and their canteens. “Would you rather this or a bit of peanut butter?” he asked Sherlock as he settled down beside John.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered, and John arched a brow at him. Reluctantly, Sherlock took a handful of the trail mix and dumped it into his mouth. If it were possible to chew resentfully, that is how John would have described it. “It will get fairly cold tonight,” he said after washing the trail mix down with some water. “We could build a fire but I’m not sure it would be worth the hassle when we can just zip our sleeping bags together. They are down, that should keep us warm enough.”

“You’re the expert,” John said with a shrug, picking the peanuts out of his own handful of trail mix. “Well, I mean, I did survival courses, but mostly for extreme environments and kidnapping situations. This is sort of… out of my comfort zone, if that makes any sense.”

“Relative comfort is out of your comfort zone?” Sherlock asked, arching his brow.

“You know what I mean,” John sighed, packing away the trail mix. “Do you think we need to do anything special with our packs? Any animals going to be rifling about?”

Sherlock shrugged. “They never did before. I don’t know, I think they should be okay for the night.”

John nodded, setting to work on zipping their bags together. “Alright. Sounds good.”

After the bag was laid out Sherlock kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his coat, draping it over his pack before climbing into the bag. John followed him in and zipped the bag closed behind them. Sherlock curled closer to him, closing his eyes. They were silent for a bit before Sherlock sighed. “It’s harder to sleep outside when one isn’t exhausted.”

“Do you want a blow job?” John asked, lifting his head to look down into Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We’d have to get back out of the sleeping bag. If we get it dirty on the first day it’s never going to be fully clean again. Let’s keep it clean as long as possible.”

John chuckled, settling back down again. “It was just an offer, no need to lecture me on cleanliness. And for the record, I can be very clean when I want to be. I wouldn’t spill a drop.”

Sherlock raised his hands to cover his face. “For the love of god, John.”

John laughed and pulled Sherlock closer. Sherlock fought for a while but eventually went limp in his arms.

 

They woke up early and continued their journey, riding until John couldn’t help but ask if they could take a break so he could stretch his legs. Sherlock helped him down and it took a couple of shaky steps to work out the tightness of his muscles. Sherlock brought him his canteen and they stood together, passing the trail mix back and forth between them as they drank their water. They refilled their canteens and John winced a bit at the thought of climbing back on the horse, and then remembered that he had packed some paracetamol in his bag. He took a couple gratefully.  “I’ m definitely going to be sore after this. Didn’t realize this would be so hard on my thighs. Jesus.”

Sherlock helped him back into the saddle and they started back off. “It’s really beautiful here, isn’t it?” John said, his eyes on the rolling hills of green. They passed a few farms and small settlements on the way, but their path did not lead them through many areas that had people.

“If you say so,” Sherlock replied, but John saw the corner of his mouth lift in a smile. They rode for a while in silence until Sherlock lifted his hand, drawing John’s attention to a point into the distance. “Do you see that stone wall there? That’s the edge of the land. The house isn’t far.”

John smiled and Sherlock urged the horse on faster.

 

When they arrived the only beings outside were a couple of sheep, a very fat pig, a goat, a handful of chickens and a horse. Not wanting to presume, they unloaded and tied their stallion on the other side of the fence where he was in reach of the water trough and hay to eat.

John was working on taking the packs off of the horse when Sherlock circled around, starting towards the house. “Sherlock, wait,” John called, but he didn’t. John cursed under his breath as one of the straps got tangled with the reigns.

“Who’s there?” a masculine voice called, his Scottish accent heavy. John stilled for a moment before he started to move around the horse, wishing he had his gun. He had tucked it into his pack, in case of emergency, but hadn’t been keen on riding with it at his back. He tried to work open the zipper of his pack as slowly as possible, so as not to make any noise.

“Hamish, it’s me,” he heard Sherlock reply. There was something soft in his voice, delicate in a way he had never considered Sherlock. When he heard running footsteps John sprang to his feet. Gun or not, he was going to protect Sherlock from whatever attack this man was planning.

But it wasn’t an attack. John stilled, jaw set in stone when he saw this man… _Hamish_ …kissing Sherlock, holding his face between his hands. Sherlock’s hands were fisted in his tunic and it was clear that he was not pushing him away. He was kissing him back.

John cleared his throat and Sherlock sprung away from Hamish, panting and red as he turned to John. He had the decency to look sheepish as his eyes trailed from John’s face back to Hamish.

He could see the resemblance that Sherlock had pointed out before. It was in the nose and eyes, that much was certain. Hamish’s hair was in waves to his shoulders and was bleached by the sun. His skin was lined and tanned, and he looked older than he probably was because of it. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up to show bare forearms, and he had on no shoes. He must have heard them outside and rushed to defend his land without considering footwear.

“Hello there,” John said with a tight smile and forced cheerfulness. He took a few steps forward and held out his left hand for the other man to shake. “I’m John Watson.”

Hamish’s bright blue eyes were studying John’s face, matching the scrutiny with which John had studied him. “That you are,” he finally said before holding out his own hand, gripping John’s tightly. “I believe you heard Sherlock address me. I’m Hamish.”

John dropped his hand from Hamish’s grasp before turning back to Sherlock, who looked just short of mortified. “I’ll get the packs, shall I?” he asked him, his voice sounding firmer than he intended it to be. Sherlock flinched and nodded. John marched back to the horse to get their things, listening to the soft conversation between his husband and Hamish.

“You’ve married him.”

“…Yes. I have. And you have a son.”

“Aye. Not two month old yet.”

“Is Gavina the mother? Or perhaps Grace?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does, Hamish. You deserve to have…”

“Yes yes, I know. You said so many times. As it happens Gavina is my wife. In name alone, mind. We have a boy to carry on the family name and now she and Ailith can live in peace.”

“And what about you?”

With that question John couldn’t stall any longer. He came back around the horse with a pack on each shoulder. “Where shall I put these?” he interrupted.

Hamish fumed silently at the interruption but plastered a cordial smile on his face. “Show him to my room, Sherlock. I can stay with Little Hamish. Be quiet, everyone’s in for a nap while my sister is in the village for trade.”

Sherlock nodded and let John inside, not quite able to meet his gaze. John dumped the packs on the bedroom floor and tried not to think about the things that might have happened between Sherlock and Hamish in this very room. Sherlock appeared to be doing the same.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if he was planning on saying something, but closed it again. John sank down on the end of the cot with a sigh, and Sherlock leaned against the wall, watching him. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly.

John shrugged. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say, if I’m honest.” And he didn’t. He was jealous, for one.  Overwhelmingly so. He wanted to push Sherlock down onto the bed, fuck him until all he could remember was John’s name. It was the dark, animal part of his brain, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore.

Sherlock finally settled down beside him, reaching for John’s hand. John allowed it, squeezing back with a sigh. “I’m not going to do anything,” Sherlock said softly, pressed a kiss to their joined hands. “I’m not going to do anything with him, John. I love you. We’re here to do a job.”

“That kiss didn’t look like nothing,” John said before he could stop himself.

Sherlock made a soft sound. “It was a kiss. Just a kiss. It’s not going to happen again.”

John nodded, not sure what to say. Not sure if he believed it. There were voices coming from the main room of the house and he looked up, motioning to the door. “We should go. Explain ourselves.”

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t move. John was the one to let go of his hand and stand, crossing to the door and stepping back into the hall. Sherlock followed him after shrugging out of his coat.

A tall woman with curly red hair was standing by the pot belly stove, a baby strapped to her chest as she loaded in firewood. Hamish was holding another child’s hand, one who was bright blonde and swinging Hamish’s hand in both of his. He was staring up at the man with clear adoration while he talked to a rugged looking blonde woman with similar features who reminded John of Harry so much he was taken aback slightly. He had seen that exact frown on Harry’s face more than once in his lifetime.

Their talking stopped when John and Sherlock entered the room. The redheaded woman smiled widely at Sherlock and rushed forward, drawing him into a hug. “When Hamish said you were back I couldn’t believe it. Oh Sherlock, it’s so good to see you!”

“Gavina, you look well,” Sherlock said, hugging her carefully because of the baby between them. “How has it been, having a little one again?”

Her smile was blinding as she smoothed a hand over the gentle swell of the baby’s back. He nuzzled into her chest with a soft sigh. “William is the best baby, hardly cries, eats like a pig. Growing every day, he’ll be like his father yet. Hamish is good to him, to both of them really. We’re so grateful having him back.”

The woman who had been speaking to Hamish deposited some large cloth bags on the counter before crossing to kiss the redheaded woman, Gavina. “I got all of the lambs wool I could with the grain, and brought in some vegetables from the garden.” 

“Thank you, my love,” Gavina said, patting the baby’s bottom as he began to fuss. “It will go well with the lamb we have from the neighbours. And since we have guests we can have a proper feast.”

With that the blonde woman turned toward them, levelling Sherlock with an exasperated look. “Sherlock Holmes, back from his travels. And you’ve brought…” she turned to look at John, her face twisting in confusion. “Where on earth did you find another one?”

“I had to search far and wide,” Sherlock said with a small smile. “This is John. John, this is Ailith Watson MacGovern. Hamish’s sister.”

“A pleasure,” John said. The woman narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t say anything. John swallowed thickly and motioned to the vegetables. “Gavina, would you like help with preparing things? I’m pretty good at following directions.”

“Of course,” she said with a nod. “First we’re going to need to fetch some water from the well. There’s a pail by the door, would you mind…?”

“I’ll do it,” Hamish interrupted, beating John to the pail and heading out.

John saw Sherlock rolling his eyes as he settled down at the table. John helped Gavina unpack the bag of root vegetables, making quick work of trimming off left over leaves and peeling what needed to be peeled. When Hamish returned with the water they used part of it to rinse the vegetables before putting the rest of it on to boil. “The oven’s been heating up so it should be hot enough for the chops. There’s a bit of butter in the larder that will be good for flavour.”

“I can do that,” John said, flicking a bit of water onto the cast iron skillet. It sizzled and smoked, which was a good sigh. He got the butter and put some into the pan before putting the first few chops into the pan. They sizzled pleasantly and John left them alone to get a good sear going.

“Sherlock and I can go gather some wild greens?” Hamish suggested. “I can teach him what can be eaten and what is poisonous, in case he wishes to poison anyone in their near future.”

“Don’t give the _Sassenach_ any ideas,” Ailith laughed.

“John? Is that alright?” Sherlock asked from behind him. Joahn didn’t turn around, his muscles tensing and relaxing as he chopped potatoes, carrots and onion.

“Whatever you want,” John replied with a half shrug, not turning around. “Just be careful.”

He didn’t turn around to see if they went. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He and Gavina worked in silence until the baby began to fuss in earnest, waving his arms. “Are you hungry, my love?” she asked.

“Here, feed him and I’ll finish everything up,” Ailith said, taking Gavina’s place at the counter, where she and John had been loading everything into the pot of boiling water. “Sit down John, you’re a guest.”

John offered her a small smile but relented, sitting down at the table with Gavina and the children. The little boy was playing with a carved wooden animal, looking up to offer him a smile. “Hey buddy, what’s that?” John asked him, leaning forward to get a closer look.

“Baa baa sheep,” the little boy said with a shrug, showing it to John.

“Can you tell him who made it for you, Hal?” Gavina asked, looking from the little boy to the baby, shifting a bit to help William latch back onto her breast.

Little Hamish nodded. “ _Dadaidh_ ,” he said, smiling.

“That’s right, your father made it,” Gavina said, winking at John. “It’s what he calls Hamish.”

“So you call him Hal, so he and Hamish don’t get confused with their names?” John asked as the little boy began playing again.

Gavina nodded. “We didn’t think Hamish would be back for there to be confusion, to be honest. If it hadn’t been for Sherlock he wouldn’t be.”

John nodded, licking his lips as he looked down at his folded hands, at the gold ring on his finger in particular. “Sherlock saved my life too. I mean…not as literally as with…with Hamish, but he gave me a reason to live.”

Gavina shifted to burp William as Ailith came over, bringing John a glass of beer. “Drink this, I make it myself,” she said as she sat down at the head of the table with a mug of her own. “You look like you need it.”

John smiled, wrapping his hands around the mug. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Hamish told me all about you,” Ailith said with an arch of her brow, taking a sip of her beer as she studied John’s face. “How you were the man who had Sherlock’s heart. Who he was going back to be with. And yet here you are. You brought him back here. Tired of him already?”

John took a slow drink. “We came back to help you all. There’s… there is a war coming, and Sherlock was concerned that it could be dangerous for you all to stay here. So we were going to help you get out. It can be hard with little ones, so…” John shrugged. He should have waited for Sherlock to explain everything, he was better at it, but Ailith was looking at him like he had given up on Sherlock’s affection and had come to deliver him into Hamish’s waiting arms.

“How do you know about all of this?” Gavina asked, her tone even as to not alarm Hal. The baby had fallen asleep again and she tucked him back into the sling.

John sighed. “That is a difficult question to answer,” he said softly. “I should let Sherlock explain it. It wouldn’t surprise me if that is what he’s doing right now.”

Ailith muttered something under her breath, shaking her head as she took another drink of her beer.

John leaned against the table, glancing towards the door. He ruffled his hair. He wanted to go check on them, make sure that they were doing what they said they were doing, but he didn’t want Sherlock to think he didn’t trust him. Because he did.

Or he wanted to.

Ailith stood, going to check on the chops and the vegetables as she nursed her drink.

“Hal, will you go check on your Da and Sherlock? Tell them it’s time to eat and if they don’t make it back we’re going to eat all of the food and there will be nothing left for them,” Gavina said, standing up to get plates and cups.

Little Hamish nodded and jumped to his feet, darting outside as he yelled for them at the top of his lungs.

They all returned shortly, Hamish carrying a pitcher of water from the well and Sherlock carrying a small basket of mushrooms and other assorted greens. His knees were coloured with dirt and bits of grass, but John didn’t say anything, he simply helped make space at the table for the food they had brought back.

They tucked in to dinner shortly after that. Everything was fresh and simple, and John voiced his appreciation of the food right away. Sherlock offered him a slight smile and leaned against his side, spearing a potato with his fork.

“It’s very good, yes,” Sherlock added, and Ailith rolled her eyes as she helped Little Hamish with his plate.

“If we would have known you were coming we would have made haggis,” Hamish said with an amused lilt, not looking up from his plate.

Sherlock shook his head. “I am glad you didn’t know, then.”

“Haggis isn’t that bad,” John said, shaking his head at Sherlock. “My gran made it every Christmas and I quite liked it, actually.”

“This one knows what he’s talking about,” Ailith said, pointing her fork at John. “Your gran was Scottish, right? That explains everything. You’re a Scot.”

John shrugged. “Yeah. Well, half Scottish. My father was English.”

“We’ll claim you anyway,” Ailith said with a wink.

Hamish took a deep drink before saying, “He’s actually a Watson. Sherlock managed to find another one, in England.”

“He found me before he found you,” John said, his tone a little sharp. Hamish arched a brow at him but said nothing.

Sherlock sighed beside him. “That is also a long story.”

Gavina hummed, looking between the pair of them. “There seems to be quite a lot of those. Hamish said…well, Hamish said that some sort of magic had brought you here, but we thought he was just being romantic. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re from the future, like he said?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he looked from Gavina to Ailith to Hamish, who had turned a familiar shade of red. “You told them?” Sherlock asked, his tone surprised.

Hamish shrugged. “Well… I didn’t see the problem. If they thought I was mad, so be it. But Ailith wouldn’t stop asking why it wouldn’t work, you staying, and I had to tell them that you didn’t belong here.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly at John’s side, and Ailith turned to John, narrowing her eyes at him. “So when you said a war was coming, you know it’s coming for sure. And you want us to leave because what, because it doesn’t go well?”

John cleared his throat, not quite sure how to respond. He looked over to Sherlock, who was watching Hamish with a guarded expression. Sherlock was the one to speak up first. “No, it doesn’t. Hamish goes back to fight with the MacKenzies and he dies there. There wasn’t anything specific about this farm being lost, but it’s better to get out while you can, save your children and your family. You can always come back when the war is over.”

It was quiet for a long moment. Little Hamish was playing with his wooden sheep again. Gavina’s arm tightened around the baby sleeping on her chest as she looked from Ailith to Hamish.

“You aren’t going back,” Ailith snapped at her brother. “Don’t even think about it.”

Hamish sighed. “I wasn’t. I…”

“But you do,” Sherlock said with a firm tone. “And we’re trying to keep you from doing so. Believe me, you do. And you die.”

They were all finished eating by now, even if everyone’s plate wasn’t empty. John’s stomach had turned as he sat there in silence, watching Hamish and Sherlock stare daggers at each other across the table. “Perhaps we can talk about it more tomorrow,” Gavina cut in. “This is a big decision, of course. We should… we should think about it. Not make any rash decisions.”

John nodded. “That’s a good idea. Let’s… Sherlock, we’ll just talk about it tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He stood, leaving the room. John heard a door shut deeper in the house and he finished his beer silently. “I think I’ll… is it alright if I go for a bit of a walk?” John asked.

Gavina nodded. “Of course. It should be getting dark soon, so be careful not to wander too far. We don’t want you getting lost.”

John left the table. He heard Little Hamish’s voice ask if he could go too, but Ailith hushed the little boy. John was out the door and he took a deep breath as he walked down the stone path toward a small garden and a paddock that held the menagerie of animals they kept. The horses were held in a separate paddock closer to the house, and their borrowed stallion had seemed to have started up a rather pleasant relationship with the mare inside. They were nuzzling each other over the fence, and John chuckled at the sight.

He walked to the edge of the property and sat down on the stone fence, watching the sun sink. He hadn’t considered how out of place he would feel here. Even though Sherlock had not been with this family long he knew them, he had been accepted by them with open arms. John was an outsider to that, someone who had taken Sherlock away and had, by default, make their life more difficult. Made Hamish’s life more difficult.

He had been gone as long as he could conceivably be gone, and the sun was setting quickly. By the time he made it back to the house the oil lamps had been lit and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Hamish was settled in the living room, William resting on his chest as Ailith cleaned the kitchen. John assumed that Gavina had taken Hal to bed, and John wasn’t sure whether he should go after Sherlock or sit with Hamish.

To be honest, he had no interest in sitting with Hamish. When he decided to go back to the room that he and Sherlock were sharing, however, Hamish looked up at him and met his gaze flatly. He had no excuse to leave, so he went into the living room and sat down in a wooden chair with a sigh. They sat in silence for a bit before John said, “You know that he cares about you.”

Hamish smoothed a hand down William’s back, eyes shifting to the nearest oil lamp. He looked introspective, a mixture of resigned and annoyed. “He does, yes.” Hamish then looked over to John. “Not as much as he cares for you, clearly.”

“We have been married less than a month,” John admitted, looking down at his ring. Hamish was looking at it as well, and John curled his hand into a fist. “So you’ll forgive me if I feel a little threatened.”  

Hamish sighed, pressing a kiss to the baby’s temple. “There is no need. There was nothing between us that meant anything to him.”

John shook his head slightly. “That’s where you’re wrong. Not I think you could ever get him to admit it.”

Hamish shook his head slightly, moving to stand, doing his best not to disturb the baby. “Do not give me hope where there is none, John. Now if you will excuse me.”

With that he disappeared into Ailith and Gavina’s room with the baby. John didn’t wait for him to reappear to go to the room that he and Sherlock were sharing.

Sherlock was sitting in the windowsill, his arms crossed as he looked outside. He didn’t turn when John entered. “The stars are so much brighter here,” Sherlock said, apropos of nothing.

“I think we’ll be able to convince them to leave,” John said, sitting down on the edge of the cot to kick off his shoes. He undressed, got a t-shirt from his pack, and pulled it on before climbing into bed. “Are you going to come to bed?”

Sherlock hummed, looking over at John. “I…I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep.”

John folded his right hand behind his head. “Will you lay down with me and try, at least?”

Sherlock unfolded himself from the window, trying to brush the dirt from the knees of his trousers before taking them off. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, shrugging out of it before climbing into bed with John, curling up against his side. “John,” he sighed, resting his head on John’s chest.

“Are you okay?” John asked, wrapping an arm around Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t respond. John didn’t press. Instead he extinguished the oil lamp.

 

“I think we should listen to them.” Gavina’s voice carried into the bedroom, and John stretched with a yawn before climbing out of the cot. Sherlock was long gone, of course, and John pulled on a pair of jeans before he padded into the living room.

“What will we do in France? Do you expect to be able to set up a farm there?” Ailith asked. She was spinning some wool into yarn in the corner. Gavina was feeding the baby in the living room while Sherlock and Hal played with wooden blocks in the floor. Hamish was nowhere to be found. He was probably out doing morning chores.

“We can do whatever we like. If we want to farm we can, but if we want to weave we do that,” Gavina replied with a shrug. “Hamish can do anything he sets his mind to, and so can you. And the children and I can make anywhere home. I just don’t want to lose anyone. Losing the farm would be difficult, of course, but losing you or Hamish or either of the boys would be unbearable.”

The sound of the spinning wheel and the sound of Hal’s high child’s voice were the only things that filled the room for a bit. John walked into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of goat’s milk and picking up a piece of shortbread. John didn’t want to interrupt the conversation. He went into the living room, sitting down in one of the wooden chairs. Sherlock leaned back against his legs, and John rested a hand in Sherlock’s curls.

“We will help you set up, of course we will,” Sherlock said, looking from Ailith to Gavina.

Ailith stopped spinning with a sigh. “Hamish won’t go. You know he won’t. He will not leave his home again, not unless he’s forced.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know how the MacKenzies get him back. He had a fiancée there, and a lover. Perhaps if they were in danger it would be enough. I don’t know. He does owe them quite a debt. But he must understand that his life is more important than the debt he owes them.”

Gavina shrugged before shifting the baby up on her shoulder. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. He’s stubborn. Not sure how he will be convinced.”

“I’ve talked him into things he didn’t want to do before, I can do it again,” Sherlock said as Hal climbed into his lap.

Ailith snorted. “Yes, well, I’m sure you had better methods of persuasion than just words before. Not sure your _husband_ would be amendable to you resorting to the methods you used before.”

John cleared his throat, finishing off his milk and going to put the cup back in the kitchen. He didn’t want to hear Sherlock’s reaction to that question, and he didn’t want to see the smug look on Ailith’s face. He leaned against the counter, taking a few deep breaths, before turning back around.

Hamish was standing in the doorway. His tunic was clenched in one of his hands, and all he was wearing was his kilt and tall boots. John clenched his jaw as he watched him mop at his brow with his tunic. “I’ve traded the animals for a caravan and a bit of gold,” he said as he bypassed John, going into the living room. “We need to start packing. We can make it to the Channel in a few weeks if we stay on track.”

Sherlock stood quickly, and Gavina made a soft sound of surprise. “Are you serious?” Ailith asked, turning away from her spinning.

Hamish nodded, resting his hands on his hips. “The neighbours have agreed to keep an eye on the place in exchange for all the crops we yield. There is no telling how long we’ll be gone; it’s for the best.”

Sherlock moved forward. “Let’s…let’s start packing, then. We can leave by this evening.”

Gavina made up a pallet in the floor of the living room for the baby and nodded. “I’ll go harvest all that I can from the garden to bring with us. Hal, my love, will you help your mother?”

“What can Sherlock and I do to help?” John asked, looking from Hamish to the women.

Ailith packed away her weaving, waving a hand. “We don’t have much, really. Watch the _bairn_ and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. If Hamish needs help with any heavy lifting help him. Sherlock, I mean no offense, but I think John will be better with that.”

Sherlock nodded, watching Hamish gather up baskets and cloth bags for their things. “Ailith, gather the clothes and blankets? I’ll hitch up the horses.”

“Come on, Hal,” Ailith said, holding out her hand for the little boy. She grabbed a handful of bags and disappeared into their bedroom.

“I’ll help with the horses,” Sherlock began, but John shook his head. 

“Stay with the baby, I’ll help Hamish,” John insisted. Hamish raised his eyebrows but nodded, tossing his tunic on the kitchen table.

John followed him outside, trying his best not to stare at the twisted scars that covered his back. He felt a sudden wave of guilt. This man had gone through awful things, and perhaps he knew better than to try to continue to fight a war when he had been given the opportunity to leave. 

John felt the slightest twinge of kinship. He tried to ignore it.

 

They left after a quick lunch. Sherlock had volunteered to hold the baby for the first leg of their journey, and Gavina had helped him into the wrap she wore. John couldn’t help his smile at the sight of Sherlock cradling the dozing baby against his chest. He could tell that Hamish was doing his best to not allow himself the same luxury. He climbed onto the caravan, taking up the reigns. Hal had wanted to sit next to him up front but Gavina had despaired at the unsafe nature of it, so Ailith was sitting with Hamish at the head of the caravan.

John had volunteered to sit towards the back of the caravan with Hal, an arm wrapped around his waist to keep the little boy from falling. He suspected that the novelty of the journey would wear off for him fairly quickly, but for now he would allow the boy to enjoy it.

Hal fell asleep eventually, curled up against Gavina’s side. John settled in next to Sherlock, who did not hesitate to lean into him. “Have either of you considered children?” Gavina asked them when she caught John looking down at William with a fond smile.

“I…I have before, yes,” John admitted, rested a hand on Sherlock’s knee. “But it isn’t the most important thing. I like being with Sherlock, working with Sherlock. That’s enough.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It isn’t something I ever considered. But it’s not… I haven’t…” he trailed off, his hand unconsciously resting on William’s little bottom.

Gavina nodded. “Of course. It’s early days yet. You still have time to enjoy each other without adding children, yes?”

They both nodded in unison, and she winked at them. They were silent for a while, and Sherlock shifted a bit. “Hamish, he’s…he’s been okay, right?”

Gavina considered the question for a moment then nodded. “Yes. He… I believe he has been. He works hard; he takes care of us all. He misses you, of course. I believe he misses the comradery that Clan MacKenzie offered him. He hadn’t spoken at all about a fiancée. I suppose it wasn’t that important to him.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I think he is happier with the arrangement he has here. It isn’t his ideal, of course, but it’s enough.”

John’s throat went dry as his hand tightened on Sherlock’s knee.  Hamish’s ideal was left unsaid, of course. “There’s no telling, you know,” John finally said. “He could find some nice French bloke. Fall head over heels. There’s plenty of time yet.”

Sherlock offered a faint smile as his head came to settle on John’s shoulder. Gavina nodded, chuckling slightly. “I hear the French are very charming. They have to be more charming than the English, at the very least.”

John offered her a smirk. “We can hold our own, I can assure you.”

Gavina winked at him, and he flushed in spite of herself. She was a beautiful woman, he couldn’t deny that. Sherlock nudged him in the ribs and John looked over at him. Sherlock arched his brow slightly, and John shrugged. If Sherlock was allowed to make eyes at Hamish, he could appreciate Gavina, at least in an aesthetic sense. It was misplaced, and a little spiteful, but there it was. Nothing would come of it, which was more than could be said about Sherlock and Hamish.

He cut off that train of thought and settled back against the wall of the caravan, closing his eyes. Sherlock sighed from next to him. “I suppose it would be a good idea to rest while we can. We have a few hours before they will stop to water the horses.”

Gavina nodded, resting a hand on Hal’s stomach as she did the same.

They were rocked to sleep by the road.

 

By the time they set up camp they had made it to the coast, nearly to England. John spread out his and Sherlock’s sleeping bags for the kids and Gavina in the back of the caravan and opted to sleep outside by the fire with Hamish and Ailith. They had eaten some of the leftovers from the night before, reheated over the fire. Ailith spend most of the time trying to start a conversation but Hamish had gone silent and introspective.

“I think I’m going to go for a quick wash,” John finally said, digging through his pack for the bar of soap, toothpaste and toothbrush he had tucked away in an interior pocket. “The water is probably freezing but I’ll risk it.”

Sherlock stood. “I’ll go as well,” he said. “Grab my things?” he picked up a couple of blankets to take with them, shaking them out and draping them over his arm.

John nodded, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and underwear for Sherlock.

They set off together in silence. “Sherlock…” John began, but wasn’t sure what he wanted to say after that. Sherlock shook his head and kept walking, waiting until they had made it to the rocky beach to say anything. He tossed the blankets down and turned to John, grabbing him and dragging him into a desperate kiss.

It surprised John, but he didn’t hesitate to kiss back. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, moving his hips back enough to allow Sherlock’s hands ample space to unfasten the button of his jeans.

Everything happened quickly. Sherlock was panting into his mouth as he quickly stroked John. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for John to reach orgasm, and had Sherlock not been there to keep him on his feet he would have collapsed. When he had regained control of his body he did sink to his knees, working Sherlock out of his trousers.

He was surprised by the force in which Sherlock thrust down his throat. John tried to suppress his gag but Sherlock didn’t give him a chance to catch his breath. John squeezed his eyes shut and clung to Sherlock’s thigh.

It didn’t take Sherlock long either. With a handful of thrusts down John’s throat he was coming as well, doubling over with his hands on John’s shoulders. They panted together for a while, John bringing a hand up to try to wipe away the spittle and come that had leaked from his mouth. He winced a bit as he felt a sharp rock dig into his knee and nudged Sherlock’s hip. “Come on, I need to get up.”

Sherlock didn’t move right away, but with another nudge to the hip he pulled back, helping John to his feet. They undressed and waded out into the water, shivering as they passed the bar of soap back and forth. When they got back out of the water they dressed quickly, wrapping themselves in the blankets for the short walk back.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” John asked Sherlock as he reached for his hand. Sherlock allowed him to take it and squeezed.

“I’m okay, yeah,” Sherlock said with a nod. “This is… this is more difficult than I imagined.”

John wanted to ask for clarification, but also didn’t want to hear that Sherlock had second thoughts about their marriage. That he had second thoughts about leaving Hamish in the first place. Instead he pulled Sherlock closer and he came willingly.

By the time they made it back to the campsite Ailith was asleep in a pile of blankets and Hamish was tending the fire. John laid his blanket down on the ground near the fire. Sherlock settled down next to him, curling against John’s chest as he usually did. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pressing a kiss to his still-damp hair. “Rest, alright?” John said softly, running a soothing hand over his husband’s back.

Sherlock was asleep before he was. It didn’t slip John’s notice that Hamish was watching them, his face illuminated by the fire. John didn’t allow himself to fall asleep until Hamish laid down with his back to them.

 

When they crossed into England Sherlock suggested that either John or he ride in the front of the caravan so that if they were stopped and questioned by anyone there would be an English voice to respond. It was clear that Hamish had not been sleeping well so by the end of the first week Sherlock had told him that he wasn’t allowed to drive the caravan until he had gotten a solid sleep and a few meals under his belt.

Hamish had argued, of course, but Sherlock insisted that he was more than capable of steering horses and following the coastline.

John was impressed, despite himself. He watched the ease with which Sherlock took to the horses and found it easy to relax into his seat.

“Does Hamish have problems sleeping usually?” John asked, crossing his arms over his chest. This was a part of the country he hadn’t seen before, and he bet that it would look very different if they were to visit it when they returned home.

Sherlock’s jaw tightened as he stared straight ahead of him. “I knew him for a month, John. I don’t think I can speak to if he _usually_ does anything.”

John sighed. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Sherlock, I was just asking. Jesus.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” John tightened his hand into a fist and loosened it rhythmically. “Sherlock, listen. I get it, okay? He’s… he is an attractive enough bloke, and he clearly cares for you. If…”

“No,” Sherlock snapped, tightening his grip on the reigns. “Don’t.”

“I just mean that if you want…if you want to… I won’t be happy with it, but I understand. You can’t help who you love. And you can’t help it if you have feelings for more than one person. And if…I mean, I understand, if you were settling for me.”

Sherlock glanced over at him, eyes bright with fury. “Settling? Do you honestly think that? John, I settled for him! He was a version of you I could have. He loved me, and had no problem showing me how much! You and I… it was much more difficult. I didn’t know how you felt about me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk it until I met him. Then I saw what I could have. And yes, I felt bad for using him for that, but I don’t feel bad enough to throw him another pity fuck with your _fucking_ permission, do you understand me? Of course I love him, I would have never agreed to come back to this godforsaken place if I didn’t, but don’t…just don’t.”

John nodded, his face heating. “Fine. Right. I’ll just… never mind. I’m not going to push it, and I’m not going to fight with you about it. It isn’t worth it to me.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good. I don’t want to fight either, so stop suggesting idiotic things.”

John watched Sherlock in silence, the admission that Sherlock loved Hamish rattling around in his head. He knew that in theory, he could tell that the moment he saw the two of them together, but hearing Sherlock say it was another thing entirely.

“We should stop here, Brianna needs a drink,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, steering the horses to a small freshwater pond slightly away from the shoreline.

“Who is…?” John began to ask, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Hamish’s horse.”

Hal was the first out of the caravan, and Ailith and Gavina began to unpack food for lunch. Hamish wandered towards a small copse of trees and John watched him disappear into the brush, a plan beginning to formulate in his mind. It would take finesse and a lot of negotiating, but the more he thought about it the more sure he was that he wanted to make sure it happened.

He wasn’t sure why he hated himself so much, but he knew if Hamish wanted it as much as Sherlock did, that they needed to have a night together before Sherlock and John left again. If they were successful in relocating the Watsons to a safe place in France John didn’t plan on ever returning here, not if they could help it. 

John climbed off of the caravan and went back to have lunch with the group. Hamish did not join them, and John couldn’t help watching the treeline for his return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to this epic time travelling caper will come on Friday. Thanks to every one of you for sticking with it!


	30. Chapter 30

They made it to Dover without incident. John had charmed a few chickens out of a farmer near the coast and they had a nice dinner. They had traded the caravan for their passage into Calais. Thankfully the ship had a cargo hold that would carry Brianna, and after being paid the men who ran the transport agreed to board the stallion until Sherlock and John’s return. Everything seemed to be going smoothly.

“I would like to go into the town, get a few things for the crossing,” John said as he stood, stretching his legs with a groan. “Hamish, will you come with me?”

Hamish arched a brow. “I’m not sure it’s the best idea. They’ll know by looking at me that I’m a Scot. I’m not keen on getting arrested and tossed into a jail again simply for existing.”

John nodded, digging around in his pack to pull out a spare pair of jeans. He tossed them to Hamish. “Here, put these on instead of the kilt. And don’t talk, if you can help it. We’ll just be brothers out for a stroll.”

Hamish held the jeans as if they had burned him. He looked from Ailith, who was suppressing a laugh, to Sherlock, who simply looked wary. “We just need a couple of things, we’ll be back in no time and you can take them back off. I promise it isn’t difficult to walk in trousers. If I can do it you can.”

Ailith laughed outright, and Hal tugged on one of the legs of the jeans. “These are funny,” he said as Hamish toed out of his shoes, pulling the jeans on under his kilt before taking it off. He tossed the kilt aside and started working on the button. It took him more than one try to get the button through the hole and he couldn’t hide his wince as he dragged the zipper upward.

Hamish put his shoes back on. The legs of the jeans were a little too short, and they were a little tighter on him through the thighs than they were on John, but they would work for the quick outing. “Do we need anything else?” John asked, his tone purposefully casual.

“N…no,” Sherlock replied as Hal came over to tug on his sleeve, wanting attention. John was pleased to note that Sherlock’s gaze flicked from John to Hamish a handful of times before he forced himself to look to the little boy.

John led the way into the village. Hamish walked a few paces behind him, moving with stiff legs. John grinned as he turned to watch him. “They aren’t going to kill you,” he said with a chuckle. “And they aren’t that tight. You can walk normally.”

“They are…very uncomfortable,” Hamish said, his tone as tight as the denim. “How do you wear these every day? I promise you, you would prefer a kilt. Much more room.”

One of Hamish’s hands settled over his crotch for a moment, trying to pull the denim away, but he gave up. “I’ll take your word for it,” John said with a chuckle, kicking a stone with his toe. “So…I wanted to talk to you about something. Sherlock feels bad, for how he left things before.”

“There is nothing for him to be sorry for,” Hamish said with a shrug. “I suppose he…he was with me because he thought we would never see one another again. This was all your idea, he told me as such.”

John cleared his throat, tucking his hands into his pockets. “It was, yeah. But it wasn’t… listen. He had a chance to make sure you had a long, happy life. And I think he needed to be the one to make sure that it happened. Even if he can’t stay here with you for it all, he needs to be the one to save you again. Make sure you get to raise your child, have a family. He has taken responsibility for you and your happiness. He wouldn’t be able to really…let go. Otherwise.”

Hamish sighed. “I am not his responsibility. He should know that. I’m a grown man, I am responsible for myself. I…I would like to say that I would never have gone back to fight in the war, but I know that isn’t true. I have not been happy. I have done all that I can to make myself so, but it hasn’t been enough.”

John hummed. “So you would have rather been dead than be alone.”

Hamish shook his head, but didn’t argue the point. “I don’t understand what you are suggesting, if I am being honest.”

John hesitated. The more the thought about it, the more he realized that one more night with Sherlock would not be enough for Hamish. If anything, it might make it worse. He wasn’t willing to allow the occasional conjugal visits through time, but he needed to make sure that both Sherlock and Hamish were allowed to move on with their lives. “I’m not sure either, except I know that Sherlock still wants you. And I know you want him right back.” 

“And what do you suspect we will do with that information?” Hamish asked. “I’m not going to...and neither will he.”

John shrugged. “I am not going to force you, either of you. But I’m tired of tiptoeing around the subject.”

Hamish motioned to the buildings around them. “What did you need from here?” he asked, trying to hide how uncomfortable he was with the subject.

John narrowed his eyes, trying to find a general store of some kind. “I wanted to pick up some ginger candy if I could find any. It will help everyone settle their stomachs on the journey across the water. It’s not long, but still. I worry mostly about Hal; I don’t want him to be miserable.”

“I have not heard of that,” Hamish admitted.

“It might not be around quite yet, but it’s worth a try,” John said with a shrug.

Hamish nodded, following him.

 

They found dried ginger and sugar cane from a small shop that specialized in imported goods. On the walk back to the campsite John explained how he would peel the cane and sprinkle some of the ginger on for everyone who had an upset stomach on the journey across the Channel. Hamish didn’t seem to care all that much, but he listened to the babbling anyway.

Hamish was walking normally in the jeans, which John found just as entertaining as the strange waddle he had been walking with before. By the time they made it back to the camp Gavina was gathering up clothes for a wash before they started across the Channel the next morning.

“Come on, off with the dirty clothes,” Gavina said. “You all can sleep in tunics while everything dries.”

John pulled some clothes out of his pack to pass to her before stripping out of the clothes he was wearing, taking one of the clean tunics Gavina offered him. Hamish did not hesitate to follow suit, peeling the jeans off and kicking them away from him like they were on fire.

“They aren’t that bad,” Sherlock said as he picked them up off the ground, passing them to Gavina. Sherlock undressed methodically, giving over his clothes before pulling on a tunic as well. It was short on him, hitting him slightly above mid-thigh.

Gavina grabbed the washboard and some goat’s milk soap before heading off to the coast.

Sherlock was quick to retreat to the blankets, covering himself up. Ailith was with the children, William propped up in her lap while Hal built a tower with his blocks. “Was your trip to town successful?” Sherlock asked John as he settled down next to him, tugging the tunic down to cover his knees.

“Yeah, got some stuff to help with seasickness. I didn’t want Hal to get sick.” John pulled some of Sherlock’s blanket over him, resting a hand on Sherlock’s thigh in the process. “And enough for everyone else, of course.”

Sherlock nodded, curling closer to John. “That was a good idea. Did Hamish complain about the jeans the entire way?”

John chuckled as he watched Hamish pack away the bags they had brought back from the village. He definitely appeared more at ease without the trousers. “He didn’t complain long, really. He waddled for a bit, but he got used to them eventually.”

“He looked strange in them,” Sherlock admitted. “They were just jeans, but they didn’t look right.”

John shrugged, wrapping an arm around him. “They served their purpose. We got there and we got back without incident.”

Sherlock hummed, eyes tracking Hamish as he went to check in with his sister and the kids. “I hope you didn’t make a fool of yourself.”

John frowned. “Why would I have done that?”

Sherlock yawned. “You wouldn’t have done it on purpose, but if you were trying to convince him that I still pine for him then maybe. But you don’t seem to have garnered any injuries, so maybe you kept your mouth shut.”

“I’m not getting in a fight with that bloke, he could definitely kill me,” John muttered. Sherlock laughed softly beside him.

“He probably could, yeah,” Sherlock agreed, resting his hand over the one John had settled on his thigh. “But to fair I think you would hold your own for a while.”

John pressed a kiss to his temple, trying to suppress his laugh. “So glad you think so. Don’t want to look like a wimp in front of my husband.”

“Mm, definitely don’t want that,” Sherlock replied, hooking his ankle together with John’s under the blankets.

They were quiet for a while, watching the flicker of the fire, and John cleared his throat. “I think I figured it all out. Why it was important to come back. I figured it out talking to Hamish, actually.”

Sherlock shook his head a bit, moving to lie down properly. He knocked John’s hand away in the process. Whether it was on purpose or not, John wasn’t sure. “I know. I understand, okay? You don’t have to keep beating me over the head with it.”

John watched Sherlock’s chest rise and fall for a few beats. “I just don’t think we can be properly happy unless you know that he is.”

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. “Go to sleep, John.”

“I’m serious. You know I am.”

Sherlock sat up in a rush, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. “I’m going over here so I can sleep,” he muttered as he stood, crossing to the other side of the fire, closer to the caravan.

John didn’t argue. When Hamish came back from putting the children to sleep in the caravan and saw that they weren’t laying together he arched a brow at John as he scratched his beard, but said nothing.

Gavina came back when most everyone else had turned in for the night. She stoked the fire as quietly as possible before disappearing into the caravan with Ailith and the children.

John was fairly certain that they were the only ones who managed to sleep.

 

They loaded onto the ship with the rising of the sun. Their clothes had not quite dried overnight so they found themselves dressing in some of the spare clothing that the Watsons had packed.

Which translated into kilts. Of course it did. Hamish looked far too happy with himself as he watched John fiddle with the buckles of his. Sherlock had begged off and produced a pair of sweatpants that had missed Gavina’s noticing and spent far too much time looking smug with William in his lap for John to think that this wasn’t part of some grand scheme.

Hamish wandered off toward the bow of the ship, sidling up to a dark-haired man who spoke very little English and who had helped them load their belongings in the cargo hold. The man was stunningly attractive, John had no problem admitting that. Especially when he smiled. He had perfect teeth, which baffled John to no end. How does one have perfect teeth without even trying?

“There we are, then,” John said as he sat down next to Sherlock, who was bouncing the babbling baby on his knee. He motioned over to Hamish. “Problem solved.”

“Not sure it’s that simple,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Hamish doesn’t know French, and that man looks shockingly like Lestrade.”

“He doesn’t,” John scoffed, but turned back for a second look anyway. He had dark eyes and tanned skin, sure. But without the silver hair he just didn’t see it. Maybe Sherlock had spent more time studying Lestrade’s face than he had.

When he voiced that opinion, Sherlock scoffed. “I’ve known him longer than you. I knew him before his hair went grey. He blames me for most of it, actually.”

John chuckled. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

The ship surged forward across the Channel and John smiled as he watched Ailith lift Hal into her arms, leaning over the side so the little boy could see the water. Gavina hovered nearby looking vaguely worried, but didn’t interfere.

The baby squeaked and reached out for John, and Sherlock seemed all too happy to pass him over. “I think he’s confused you for his father. Must be the kilt.”

“Shut up about the bloody kilt,” John muttered as he took William into his arms, holding the child in the crook of his arm. “The more I think about it the more I think you planned this.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Hamish’s idea. It didn’t take much convincing Gavina that doing laundry would be a good idea.”

“Bastards, the both of you,” John said as he tickled the baby’s chin. He made another squeaking sound and went for John’s finger.

“He told me you were trying to pawn me off on him,” Sherlock said, his tone carefully flat.

“That wasn’t…”

“Yes, well, he seemed to be defending you too, so you can just skip trying to explain.” Sherlock drew his legs up against his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins as he rested his chin on his knees. “Do you really think me sleeping with him will do any good? Because I don’t. I think it will just make things more difficult for him.”

“I don’t know,” John admitted, leaning his head against the railing behind him. “I don’t know if it will help. But I’m not sure it will hurt, either.”

They were silent for a bit, the baby gnawing on John’s finger with his gums. “I want you there,” Sherlock finally said. “You’d spend the rest of your life wondering what exactly happened so I wouldn’t want to leave any room for speculation. And I won’t let him fuck me. That didn’t happen before and I don’t want it to happen now.”

John felt his ears heat and he nodded. “That’s…that’s up to you. Of course it is.”

They startled a bit when they heard Hamish’s laugh cut through the air. They both looked over to where he stood with the young French man, who seemed to have caught the brunt of a wave breaking over the bow. Hamish bent down to pick up the hat that had been knocked from his head and handed it back to the man, who shook water from it with a wry grin.

“If I have to act as a translator so they can have sex I think I’m going to just…cease to exist,” Sherlock muttered.

John sputtered out a surprised laugh, and the baby squeaked again.

 

John broke out the sugar cane and ginger an hour in to the journey. Hal and Ailith were beginning to look a little green around the gills and if it were at all possible to keep them from being sick, he wanted to do that. Hal took to chewing on the sugar cane with a wide smile, returning to the railing to watch the waves break against the sail boat. Gavina was feeding William, her tight curls whipping around her face. “This is lovely, isn’t it?” she sighed, eyes tracking a gull as it dove into the water. In the bright sunlight John could see freckles over her nose and cheeks.

“As long as no one vomits it will stay that way,” Sherlock muttered, eyeing Ailith warily.

“Some people’s stomachs can’t handle it,” John sighed, shaking his head. “It’s only a few more hours across, if the wind permits. If not it could take longer. If Hamish could speak French I’m sure he would know more, I think he’s managed to climb up the rat line a bit to look ahead. If it wasn’t so cloudy and the waves weren’t so high I bet you could see Calais from here.”

“What is France like?” Gavina asked, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“It’s nice, it really is,” John said, offering her a reassuring smile. “It will be a bit hard, at first, especially since you don’t know the language. I got on alright whilst I was there, and I don’t know a lick of French.”

Gavina nodded, looking slightly more relieved. “And I am sure there are people who would help us learn. There are kind people everywhere if one only looks hard enough.”

Sherlock muttered something under his breath and John elbowed him in the ribs. “There are, yeah,” John agreed. “And if you stay in Calais there’s a nice beach. We…I mean, we won’t be able to stay with you all in France long if we’re going to make it back to Craigh na Dun on time, but we can do what we can to get you set up.”

“No, we understand,” Gavina said with a nod. “And believe me, we appreciate all the time you have given us so far. It’s more than we could have ever asked for.”

John opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped when he heard a splash from behind him. He stood when he heard Ailith scream, and ran to her side when he heard one of the crewman yell “MAN OVERBOARD!”

“Throw the life preserver,” John yelled but one of the crewmen was already on it. “Who…?”

“MY SON!” Ailith bellowed, holding on to the railing tightly. “HAL!”

John didn’t hesitate. He saw the little white cap in the water where the boy had went in and he jumped. The force of the fall shot him down in the water at least eight feet but he struggled back to the surface. The wool of his kilt quickly absorbed the water and it began to weigh him down, but he fought past it as best he could. “Hamish!” John yelled, spitting out a mouthful of sea water as he looked around. He found the life preserver with relative ease and hooked his arm around it, but there was no sign of the boy. “HAMISH!” he yelled again, eyes scanning the surface of the water frantically.

“HERE! I HAVE HIM!” another man yelled from somewhere behind John and he let out a relieved pant when he saw Hamish with the child in his arms. He hadn’t heard the man hit the water, but he was here, and he had found the little boy.

“Take this ring, they can get you back on board,” John said, but Hamish shook his head and handed the unconscious boy over to John.

“You go up with him, you’re a doctor, I don’t…” John nodded, holding on to the boy tightly with one arm and the life preserver with the other. The ship had come to a dead stop in the water, and a line of faces were looking over the edge at them. “PULL THEM UP!” Hamish bellowed, his voice a bit hoarse as he treaded water.

John and Hal were hoisted over the edge of the ship rather quickly, and the life preserver was tossed back in for Hamish. Ailith was inconsolable and had dropped to her knees on the deck. Gavina had wrapped her in a tight embrace, whispering into her hair in Gaelic.

John didn’t look around for Sherlock. He didn’t have time. The little boy wasn’t breathing. He laid him down on the deck carefully before he started compressions, counting in his head. He leaned in, filling the boy’s lungs with air manually, his little chest rising. When nothing happened the first round he continued. “Come on Hal, breathe for me,” he whispered before leaning in to fill his lungs a second time.

Hal’s eyes snapped open and he projectile vomited his stomach full of sea water. John let out a relieved laugh as he helped the little boy sit up, patting his back as he vomited again and then began to cry.

“You’re alright, we’ve got you,” John said, wrapping an arm around the little boy in an effort to comfort him, but his crying continued until Hamish appeared and scooped him up into a tight hug. Whispering comforting words in Gaelic, he carried him over to Gavina and Ailith.

None of them could speak. They clung to each other until Hal’s tears slowed and he began to shiver.

“I’ll go get dry clothes and blankets,” Sherlock volunteered from somewhere behind John, and only then did John climb to his feet. He was shaking as well, from adrenaline and from the cold water. Sherlock was holding the baby in Gavina’s sling, his face pale.

“I’ll come with you,” John offered as he tried to keep his teeth from chattering and his knees from knocking His shoulder ached from the bone deep cold of the ocean.

“No, stay, check Hal over to see if he’s injured,” Sherlock said, waving him over to the Watsons, who were huddled together still.

John took a steadying breath as he walked over to them. “Do you mind if I give you the once over, Hal? Make sure you didn’t hurt anything when you hit the water?”

Hamish pulled back to give John room and Ailith reluctantly loosened her grip on the little boy, wiping her face with her sleeve. “I…I was sick, I leaned over the edge of the rail to…to empty my stomach…and I watched him go over, hit the water. I…I didn’t mean…”

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” John said softly as he smoothed his fingers over Hal’s skull, checking for bumps or bruises. When he found none he moved on to the boy’s neck, then shoulders, then down his spine. He finished with his extremities, carefully moving his joints. “He seems alright. Just a bit shaken up, yeah?”

Hal nodded, whimpering a bit. “I didn’t mean to go under,” he whined, fresh tears escaping his eyes.

“We know that,” John said softly as he let the boy go so he could snuggle back between Gavina and Ailith. “We’ll just stay away from the edge in future, yeah?”

Hal’s nod was enthusiastic. John’s offered them all a relieved smile before he settled back onto the wet deck with a hand over his chest. His heart was still racing. He closed his eyes, taking steadying breaths.

Sherlock returned with dry clothes and blankets for all three of them. John was pleased to find that his jeans were dry, as well as a jumper that he had forgotten he had even packed. He changed, entire body shivering, but only after he had made sure Hal was in a dry tunic and was swaddled in the thickest blanket of them all.

Hamish seemed reluctant to rejoin the crew at the front of the ship. Instead he sat with his family. He had taken William back from Sherlock after he had warmed himself and he sat, shifting his gaze from the baby to the little boy with a look of fierce protectiveness.

John perked up slightly when he saw the dark-haired young Frenchman approach, his large brown eyes wide. “Ah…there is food?” he said in a very thick accent, then brought his hand to his mouth as if he were taking a bite of something. “For you? Below.”

He was addressing Hamish, who offered him a curt nod. The man frowned slightly, ruffling his windblown hair.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said with a smile, standing and reaching for John’s hand. “Going into the holds below should help with seasickness as well.”

The man nodded, as if he had understood Sherlock’s words, and led them down to a small hold where the food was. It was a small lunch of mussels stewed in tomatoes and crusty bread, which John ate gratefully. Hal munched on a piece of bread, still sitting in Ailith’s lap, and Hamish dipped his own bread into the sauce before eating it, apprehension on his face.

“Good?” the young man asked, sitting up a bit straighter.

Hamish offered him a slight smile. “Yes. Good.”

The man nodded, looking pleased. “Good. I make.”

“You made this?” John asked, scooping up another bite with his spoon. “It’s very good. You are a good cook.”

The man preened a bit, returning to his own bowl. “ _La petit chou_ , he is okay?” he asked after a moment, motioning to Hal, who was yawning widely as he leaned back against Ailith’s chest.

Hamish nodded, picking up his bowl to drink the stew directly from the bowl. “He’s okay, yes.”

“ _Bon_ ,” the man sighed, looking relieved. “And you okay, yes?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and John glared over at him, but neither said a word. Hamish put down his bowl with a nod. “I am okay.”

“ _Tres Bon._ ”

“John’s okay too, if you cared to ask,” Sherlock muttered, and John stamped on his foot under the table. Sherlock winced, but reached for his glass of wine.

The man dragged his eyes from Hamish to Sherlock and flushed darkly. “I go,” he said softly, putting away his bowl before hurrying away, back up to the deck.

“I think we’ll find a quiet place to take a nap, it’s… been quite the day,” Gavina said, gathering up the empty bowls before reaching out for Ailith’s hand. Hal was already dozing in her arms.

The men wished them all a good rest as they left. Hamish soon stood. “Are you going back up to spend time with the crew?” Sherlock asked him, his tone sharp.

Hamish tensed. “Why does it matter if I wish to do so?”

John narrowed his eyes, trying to get his husband to keep his mouth shut through telepathy. It didn’t work.

“He seems rather desperate,” Sherlock said with a deceptively light tone. “I wonder if he’s like that with all of his passengers, or just the ones who pay him the slightest bit of attention.”

“You…” Hamish began, his teeth clenched. He darted a quick look toward John before turning back to Sherlock. “You do not wish to _fuck_ me, yet you are jealous of someone who may wish to do so? I will never understand you, Sherlock Holmes.”

And with that he left, leaving Sherlock a strange shade of purple with his mouth hanging open in shock. He finally snapped it shut, and John shook his head as he watched him try to compose himself. “You deserved that,” John finally said, standing up. He patted Sherlock’s shoulder before leaving as well, shaking his head.

Sherlock did not try to stop him.

 

They made it to Calais around dinnertime. Sherlock insisted on using some of the gold Hamish had gotten from the sale of their farm animals to rent a few rooms at an inn. He had even managed to talk the man into providing them with dinner for the night, if the outcome of their conversation in French was any indication. They shared a bottle of wine, then another. Gavina was the first of the group to turn in, taking the children to their room. Ailith followed closely behind, cheeks a little pink from the alcohol.

That left Hamish, John and Sherlock. Sherlock and Hamish had been doing their best to ignore each other, but John caught them both sneaking looks at one another when they thought the other wasn’t looking.  

“You should travel on to the South of France, Provence, perhaps,” Sherlock said as he swirled his glass of wine. “There is a branch of my family there; perhaps you can find a young, attractive man who looks a bit like me who can’t argue with you properly because he doesn’t know English.”

Hamish levelled a steady gaze on Sherlock, shaking his head a bit. “Believe me, one of you is enough to last a lifetime. I’m not sure I could deal with the daily reminder if I found someone else like you. I need someone different is nearly every way, I think.”

Sherlock arched a brow. “Am I that bad?” he asked, and John noted that he hadn’t been able to keep all of the hurt out of his tone.

Hamish shook his head, draining his glass before reaching for the bottle for a refill. “If you really think that’s why you are nowhere near as intelligent as I believed you to be.”

Sherlock leaned against John’s side, lowering his gaze to the table.

Silence reigned for far too long.

“So,” John began, and Hamish started a bit at the sound of his voice. Sherlock’s hand lowered to John’s knee and _squeezed_ , but he pressed on. “This is awkward.”

Hamish made a strange, sputtering sound, but didn’t cease his glaring.

“Did you sleep with him, then? The sailor?” Sherlock hissed across the table at Hamish.

“Yes, several times,” Hamish replied with a curl of his lip. “More times than I could count. I could barely contain myself.”

Sherlock stood with a huff and John caught his hand, not letting him leave. “Sherlock, he’s trying to get a rise out of you, don’t…”

“Did you want me to pine away for you for the rest of my life, Sherlock? Find a copy of you somewhere in Provence; think about you when I’m with him? Would that make you happy?” Hamish asked, the antagonistic tone he had adopted before gone. His question was genuine. “I’m confused, truly.”

Sherlock pulled his hand free from John’s grasp, shaking his head. “No…I… of course that’s not what I want. But…”

Sherlock didn’t finish his sentence. He let it trail off, unfinished.

“But you are jealous all the same.”

John watched as Sherlock sighed and nodded. “I know I’ve no right to be,” Sherlock said in a rush, motioning towards John in lieu of explanation. “And…and I…”

Hamish shook his head a bit, eyes softening as he watched Sherlock. “For someone who is so reliant on their words they are surely failing you now, _Sassenach_.”

“Perhaps we should go back to our room,” John suggested, reaching for Sherlock’s hand again. Sherlock did not allow him to take it.

“John, for the last time…” Sherlock began, but Hamish’s voice cut over his.

“Yes, we should.” John met Hamish’s gaze over the table and something passed between them. An understanding.

Sherlock made a soft sound, one that John had not heard him make before. John stood, holding out his hand for Sherlock’s one more time.  

Sherlock hesitated, watching it as if John’s touch might be hurt him. Eventually he took it and when he did, Hamish stood. “I haven’t agreed to anything,” Sherlock protested weakly.

Hamish laughed deep in his chest as he shook his head. “Shall I ask for permission?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the other man who simply laughed harder. John assumed it was some sort of running joke with the pair of them, so he didn’t ask for clarification. Instead he led Sherlock upstairs, his grip on his hand tight. He was afraid that he might pull away.

Hamish locked the door behind them before going to light the oil lamp by the bed. Sherlock paced the length of the room and John watched him. He reminded him of a panther pacing its cage at the zoo, anxious and panting to be released. “Did you ever get him to wear a kilt before?” John asked Hamish, who had sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes.

“Aye,” Hamish replied, his voice heavy with pride. “His pale little legs were a sight to behold.”

John tried valiantly not to laugh, he really did.

He failed.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched as he stilled. “I hate you both so very, very much.”

“Please do forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Hamish said as he lounged back on the bed, folding his hands behind his head with a smirk.

Sherlock took a few steps closer to him. “I liked you much better before, when you were in fear of your life. You weren’t so…smug.”

“Shall I pretend to be afraid of you, _Sassenach_?”

Something electric happened then and the hairs on the back of John’s neck stood up. Sherlock advanced on Hamish quickly, climbing onto the bed before pinning him down, fingers wrapping around Hamish’s throat. “Sherlock…” John choked out but Sherlock made no indication that he had heard. He only tightened his grip on the other man’s throat. Hamish took a laboured breath in but didn’t fight. He simply stretched out his neck a bit to give Sherlock’s hands more room and closed his eyes.

“Fucking death wish,” Sherlock snarled before leaning in, pressing his lips against Hamish’s with a frenzied passion. Hamish’s hands flew from their folded position behind his head to Sherlock’s jaw, holding his face gently.

This time as John watched them kiss, he wasn’t as overwhelmed with jealousy. It was still there, of course, but it merely growled in the back of his mind. This time he watched Sherlock, watched how he pressed Hamish down into the bed. Watched him take what he wanted from the other man. 

It was hot. John was surprised to find himself aroused by the sight.

“My legs aren’t little,” Sherlock said as he sat back, tightening his grip on Hamish’s hips with his thighs. “John, tell him.”

It was only then that Sherlock turned to look at John, and although his lips were red and swollen and his eyes were dark with lust, there was a question in his face. John nodded slightly, offered him a slight smile, and said, “Well, comparatively. They are, a bit.”

“Traitor,” Sherlock replied, reaching out a hand to beckon John closer. “You looked terrible in a kilt, so you know. Very strange.”

“That is a lie and you know it,” John said with a shake of his head, taking Sherlock’s hand to press a kiss to his fingertips. “I saw you staring.”

“I thought I was seeing double,” Sherlock replied, circling an arm around John’s waist.

“We don’t resemble each other that closely,” Hamish said from beneath Sherlock, which garnered another squeeze of Sherlock’s thighs. This time instead of letting out a grunt of pain Hamish rolled his hips upward into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock let out a surprised sound, his eyes sliding closed for a moment.

John smoothed a hand over Sherlock’s stomach as his head dropped forward. “Are you alright?” John asked against Sherlock’s ear, and he didn’t hesitate to nod.

“This is just a lot,” Sherlock said softly, leaning into John.

“I know, I know, love,” John said, stroking a hand down Sherlock’s back. “It’s okay, though. You’re okay.”

Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath before turning a bit so he could catch John’s lips with his. They kissed slowly, Sherlock’s body rocking down against Hamish, whose hands had settled on Sherlock’s hips.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John asked as he slid his hand through Sherlock’s hair. It was a bit longer now, and he was thankful that Sherlock’s hair grew quickly.

“Maybe…” Sherlock said, looking down at Hamish with his lip between his teeth. “Can… can I…?” He reached down, tugging at Hamish’s tunic. “Off.” 

Hamish sat up slightly so he could tug it off, tossing it aside. Sherlock’s hands slid over his chest, tracing the outlines of the other man’s well-defined muscles.

John tried not to feel fucking inferior. Hamish was probably a good ten years younger than he was and was a labourer to boot, but still—he had no right looking that good. He hoped that Sherlock didn’t want him to take his shirt off next.

But that was his next move. Of course it was. John sighed as he pulled his jumper over his head, trying not to look at Hamish in the process. He sucked in his stomach a bit, just in case. Sherlock leaned over to press a kiss to his chest, licking over one of his nipples.

John started tugging at Sherlock’s tunic, and he lifted his arms over his head so that John could pull it free.

Hamish let out a shaking breath, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hips. “Can I touch you?” Hamish asked Sherlock. Sherlock glanced over to John, lip caught between his teeth again. John nodded once and Sherlock turned back to Hamish. His nod was more enthusiastic than John’s had been, and Hamish pressed one of his hands over Sherlock’s crotch as the other slid up his chest. Sherlock rocked down into his hand, drawing in a shaky breath as he did so.

Hamish propped one of his legs up and Sherlock leaned back against his thigh, rolling their hips together in a practiced motion. “Fucking hell,” John groaned, reaching down to adjust himself. “Sherlock, you’re going to have to make room for me.”

“Get the lube, I know you have some in your bag,” Sherlock instructed before leaning down to kiss Hamish again, rocking their bodies together.

John remembered that before he had insisted that he didn’t want Hamish to fuck him. Perhaps Sherlock had something else in mind. He returned to the bed just as Sherlock rolled off of Hamish, stretching out beside him. “I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock said as he looked over to John for a moment, his eyes sliding closed as Hamish leaned in to press kisses down his neck as he slipped his hand into Sherlock’s sweatpants. Sherlock shivered a bit, which was probably a combination of the tickle of Hamish’s facial hair and his touch.

“Are you sure?” John asked, even as he made to unfasten his jeans.

“I want you inside me and I want Hamish in my mouth,” Sherlock said in a rush, letting out a soft whimper as Hamish did something to him inside of his pants.

“Oh…okay,” John panted, crawling onto the foot of the bed and reaching up to take hold of Sherlock’s sweatpants to pull them down. Hamish’s hand was, indeed, stroking Sherlock slowly, not intent on bringing him off but more teasing. Even still Sherlock’s hips were arching to meet the slow strokes, mouth open as Hamish peppered kisses along his jaw.

“John…” Sherlock sighed, letting his legs fall open.

John’s throat went dry as he slid his hands up the soft insides of Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock had very little hair on his body, the darkest of it centred under his arms and at his groin. His thighs were sparsely covered in soft hair that was almost ginger. It was yet another thing about Sherlock that he found endlessly endearing, but he would never tell him so. Sherlock would just think him strange.

He popped open the bottle of lube and poured some into the palm of his hand, working it over his fingers before reaching down to gently trace the muscle at Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock held his breath, brushing his lips against Hamish’s.

But Hamish pulled away. “Can I watch?” he asked Sherlock softly, his tone close to begging.

John stopped for a moment, waiting to see how Sherlock would respond. When Sherlock finally nodded John began again, pressing a finger into his body. He shifted slightly to make room for Hamish to join him at the end of the bed. The bed was not nearly large enough for three fully grown men, but they would have to make due.

Sherlock gasped as John twisted his finger inside of him, his knees starting to snap together. Hamish caught one of them, pressing it down against the mattress. “Be still,” Hamish instructed, eyes moving from Sherlock’s face back to his arse.

When John added a second finger, Sherlock reached out for Hamish, tightening a fist into the fabric of his kilt. He pulled him closer, going for the buckles that kept it closed. “This comes off,” Sherlock said, and Hamish didn’t hesitate to comply. Sherlock held out a shaking hand towards John. “Lube,” he requested, and John uncapped the bottle, pouring more than was probably necessary into Sherlock’s waiting palm.

John gently stretched Sherlock as he stroked Hamish’s cock, his foreskin sliding easily. John licked his lips, smiling a bit as he felt Sherlock’s muscles relax, treating his fingers as a welcome presence rather than an intrusion. He didn’t hesitate to slick up his erection and press into Sherlock’s body slowly.

Sherlock whimpered and sped up his hand. Hamish dropped his head, resting a hand on Sherlock’s stomach as he tried to catch his breath. “ _A chiall beannaich mise,_ ” Hamish growled. John had no idea what that meant, but he very much agreed.

When he began fucking Sherlock in earnest Hamish climbed off the bed, circling back around to the head and climbing back in, manoeuvring Sherlock’s body into his lap so that Sherlock’s head was pillowed on his thigh. With each thrust Sherlock was pressed into his abdomen, rocking against his cock. “Open your mouth, Sherlock,” John panted, holding still long enough to give Sherlock the chance. His mouth fell open and Hamish guided his erection between his lips.

Sherlock made a filthy noise, a noise that Hamish echoed, and John took that as a sign to begin again, setting a pace that had them rocking in tandem. Each thrust into Sherlock’s body sent Sherlock’s mouth down on Hamish’s cock, and John soon found himself lost in the moment, in the sight and sensation of it all. Sherlock’s right heel was digging into his shoulder, and he had somehow lost the moment that found his leg draped over it in the heated frenzy. Hamish’s foot was pressing into John’s knee, but he was beyond caring. He was too close to orgasm to care about anything.

Hamish came first, fingers laced in Sherlock’s hair. He pulled away when he became too sensitive for Sherlock’s mouth but moved farther down, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s straining erection again. “Look at you _Sassenach,_ ” he said softly, letting John’s quickening trusts drive Sherlock’s cock through his fingers. “You are beautiful.”

And he was. His lips were swollen and his chin was shining with his saliva and Hamish’s semen, and John couldn’t take it anymore. He came with a shout that he did his best to muffle against Sherlock’s knee, emptying himself into Sherlock’s body in pulse after hot pulse. Hamish was whispering to Sherlock as he continued to stroke him, but the only clear thing he could make out was “ _Tha gaol agam ort_.” He didn’t know what that meant either, but he agreed. Goddamn he agreed.

If John’s orgasm was a bang Sherlock’s was a whimper swallowed down by Hamish’s mouth. Come covered Hamish’s fist and Sherlock’s stomach but still they kissed, slow and steady.

John’s hands fumbled across the mattress as he tried to find someone’s shirt. He finally found a tunic and wiped himself down before doing the same to Sherlock. “Here,” John said, tossing the tunic at Hamish’s head to get them to stop kissing. Hamish turned red as he took the hint and rolled away, wiping away the traces of ejaculate that covered his tanned skin.

Sherlock reached out for John. He tried to sit up but couldn’t, so John took pity and settled down beside him, drawing him into a kiss. John could taste something unfamiliar on his tongue and he knew all at once that it was Hamish—Hamish’s mouth and Hamish’s cock and Hamish’s come that had filled Sherlock’s mouth not minutes before. He should have been repulsed by the concept, but he wasn’t.

He kissed Sherlock deeper.

“Should I go?” Hamish asked, his voice soft and small in the dying lamplight.

Sherlock pulled back from John enough to protest, reaching out for the closest part of Hamish’s skin. “Stay, sleep here.”

“It will be a tight fit,” Hamish protested weakly even as he began to settle in. Sherlock’s back pressed snugly against John’s chest and he knew that Hamish’s was pressed against his husband’s.

But he didn’t care. He was too tired to care.

They slept.

 

When they woke up next morning Sherlock and John were alone in bed. Their bodies were slotted together with John’s head buried against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock pulled away first, rising to cross to the chamber pot in the corner of the room to relieve himself. John rolled over onto his back, scratching his stomach. He had started to drift off to sleep when a cold wet cloth landed on his chest. “You’d better clean up a bit, might be a long, uncomfortable day otherwise.”

John begrudgingly began to wipe down his crotch, muttering all the way. After Sherlock had done the same he pulled on his sweatpants and the jumper that John had been wearing the previous day. John climbed out of bed and pulled on some pants before tugging on his jeans. He fished a t-shirt and his toothbrush out of his pack. After brushing his teeth, relieving his bladder, and trying to tame his hair he set to work packing up their things, leaving the rather crusty-looking tunic they had used the night before to clean up lying on the floor when it had fallen. He couldn’t imagine delivering it to Gavina for a wash.

When they made it downstairs Ailith, Gavina, Hal and William were sitting at a small table in the back of the inn’s pub, finishing up their breakfasts. Two more plates were delivered as Sherlock and John settled down with them. Sherlock dug into his crepes with gusto while John started with the cluster of grapes on his plate. Hal begged a few grapes off of him, and he was happy to oblige.

“He has discovered he quite likes grapes,” Ailith said with a grin. “Might be the best part of France so far.”

John ruffled the little boy’s hair and gave him the rest of his grapes. “Was Hamish not with you?” Gavina asked as she finished up nursing William, wiping the little boy’s chin before moving to burp him.

“No,” Sherlock replied quickly, keeping his eyes on his plate. “He must have been up early.”

Ailith studied the pair of them with narrowed eyes but said nothing. That woman, John decided, was too observant for her own good.

They were finishing off their breakfast when Hamish returned, a wide smile on his face. His hair was pulled back at the base of his neck, but a few pieces had fallen free and were framing his face in gentle waves. “Excellent news,” he crowed as he approached the table, dropping down at a chair across from Ailith. “We have a place to stay, a place to farm, even. Jacques has a family farm that he inherited  just outside of Calais to the east. He never wanted to take up the family business, which is why he left to become a sailor. When he father died it was given to him, and he was planning to sell. He’s hardly ever there, what with sailing goods and passengers back and forth across the Channel. He offered it to us. We can pay him in a percentage of the income that the farm brings in. He’d be happy to have a family there.”

Gavina clapped her hands together and Ailith drew Hal into a hug. John smirked, but Sherlock asked “Who the hell is Jacques?”

“The sailor, Sherlock,” John said under his breath. “The pretty one that can cook?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot upwards as he studied Hamish’s elated expression. “How on earth did you get that much intelligible English out of him?”

Hamish’ mouth fell open as he started to go pink, but he closed it again as he offered a nonchalant shrug. “He’s better at English than he lets on. He’s going to take us up today. He’s borrowed a cart from one of the men he works with, and Brianna is more than able to pull it.”

“That’s amazing!” Gavina said breathlessly, standing in a rush so that she could pull Hamish into a proper hug. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, squeezing him slightly.

“You definitely slept with him,” Sherlock whispered as he pointed his fork at Hamish, who had the decently to shrug. His grin was sly.

“That is none of your business,” Hamish replied, but his tone held no malice. It was teasing.

“You charming bastard,” John said with a laugh, reaching out to shake Hamish’s hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he leaned into John’s side. “Apparently in runs in the family.”

Hamish clapped his hands together and stood. “He should be here soon; I’ll go and make sure Brianna is ready.” He left as quickly as he had come, but he left behind excitement that spurred Ailith and Gavina into action. They hurried upstairs, Hal trailing off behind them, to gather their things.

“So I suppose this means we can head back today,” Sherlock said softly.

John nodded, squeezing him again. “It might be best. We don’t want to push our deadline. We’ve got… what, fourteen days to make it back to Craigh na Dun. It’s doable but we can’t take too much time.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course. We can go find a ship back across now.”

“We can wait long enough to see them off, at least,” John said, standing up with a stretch.

Sherlock followed him reluctantly. “If we must, but if I have to watch _Jacques_ …”

“You’ll grin and bear it, Hamish watched me fuck you last night,” John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock made a strangled sort of noise and John grinned triumphantly.

 

John found it amusing, watching Hamish’s attempts at speaking to Jacques. Neither one seemed to be too terribly frustrated by the language barrier, but John could tell that it was annoying Sherlock to no end. He would cut in occasionally, explaining to Jacques what Hamish was trying to say in clipped French, and the young man would nod enthusiastically, eyes never leaving Hamish’s face.

The boy did have a hell of a smile on him.

They were loading onto the cart, Jacques already at the reigns. This time Hamish agreed to let Hal ride up front with them as long as he promised to hold on tightly.

John started his hugs goodbye with Gavina and William. The baby squeaked at him and reached out for him with his pudgy little fists, and John pressed a kiss to one of them with a smile. Ailith was next, and she squeezed the air out of his lungs.

“Thank you for saving our son,” she said, her tone choked with emotion. “You remind me so much of my brother.”

“Of course,” John replied, patting her back gingerly. “And you remind me of my sister, except you’re far less annoying.”

Ailith laughed despite her tears. She was reluctant to let him go but she did eventually. He moved on to where Hamish was standing, Hal in front of him. Sherlock was still with Ailith and Gavina, having followed John’s lead in bidding everyone farewell.

“John, I thank you,” Hamish said as he held out a hand. “I… I do not feel any of this could have gone so easily if not for your intervention. I mean that. There are no words to express my gratitude.”

John shook his hand, thrown off by the deep sincerity in Hamish’s tone. “Of course. And I hope you keep your arse in France for a while, you’ve got plenty to occupy yourself with besides a war.”

Hamish sighed. “I suppose the Scots don’t win.”

John winced a bit, but didn’t contradict him. “You win by keeping yourself alive, yeah?”

Hamish nodded, ruffling Hal’s hair as the little boy reached for Jacques, who hoisted him up in the seat next to him. Hamish smiled as Hal asked question after question and Jacques, who clearly couldn’t follow, just agreed with everything the boy was saying. Hamish scuffed his foot in the dirt and cleared his throat. “You will…of course, you will take care of Sherlock.”

John’s heart constricted a bit and he nodded. “Of course. I always have, and I always will. Anyone would be lucky to have you, you know. Don’t settle for less than you deserve.”

Hamish made a studied effort not to glance up to Jacques. He had a slight smile on his face all the same. His eyes slid to a point behind John and John turned slightly. Sherlock was there, wearing his coat and the Watson tartan scarf. His hands were buried in his pockets as he studied Hamish, his expression unreadable.

“I suppose that is your family’s tartan now as well,” Hamish said, motioning to the scarf. Sherlock lifted up an end to study it for a moment, nodding. “Welcome to Clan Watson. I will have to warn you, we are a stubborn and proud people. I think you’ll fit in perfectly.”

Sherlock smiled as he came forward, wrapping Hamish into a hug. “Be kind to yourself, you great idiot,” Sherlock said softly as he held him close, hands spread wide against his broad shoulders.

“And you, _Sassenach,_ ” Hamish retorted. “And be kind to your husband, he has done much to deserve it.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, meeting John’s gaze over Hamish’s shoulder. “He has, hasn’t he?”

“Is okay?” Jacques asked, his voice cutting through the weight of the moment. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped back, waving Hamish towards the cart.

“Yes, okay,” Hamish chuckled, reaching up to pat the Frenchman on the knee. “We should be going.”

“Of course,” John said, taking a step back from the horse and cart. Sherlock reached out for John’s hand blindly, and he took it.

John waited for Sherlock to say goodbye, but even as the cart began to pull away the word never came. Gavina waved at them, as did Hal, and John returned their waves with enthusiasm. Sherlock was still beside him. When John turned to look at his face he expected tears, but there were none. Sherlock was smiling, just slightly, fingers tangled in the ends of his scarf.

“Come on,” John said after the cart was out of sight. “We’ve got a boat to catch.”

Together they walked to the docks in compatible silence.

 

The boat ride back across the Channel took longer but was far less eventful. The crew were mostly older men who spoke in English accents that John had encountered a few times during his time in the army. They arrived back in Dover shortly after lunchtime and wasted no time gathering their stallion and loading him back up with their packs. The ride back up the coast to Scotland would be much rougher without the benefit of a caravan but they could also travel faster without it.

John was thankful for the remaining paracetamol in his pack.

What had taken them nearly two weeks coming down took a mere 10 days riding back. Because of their fact pace they spent a few days walking, mostly at John’s insistence. John’s entire body ached and his thighs were chafed from the hard riding. “Jesus, how on earth do they do this in just kilts? I wouldn’t have any hide left between my legs.”

Sherlock chuckled as they walked up to the farm where they had got the stallion at the beginning of their journey. “I thought the same thing, but that was after having to ride in a kilt. I assumed they had built up callouses but thorough examination of Hamish’s cock proved my theory wrong.”

John’s laugh surprised him as it ripped free from his chest.

The farmer poked his head out of the door at the sound and it took a while for him to recognize them, but he was more than happy to have his horse returned to him in good health.

Their walk to Craign na Dun was leisurely. The next night was the full moon, so they planned on setting up camp near the stones and leaving as soon as they woke. John fished out the remainder of the trail mix, tossed it to Sherlock, and laid out their sleeping bags along with the scraps of food still lingering in his pack. “I can’t believe he found someone the instant we got on the boat,” Sherlock sighed for what seemed the hundredth time. “I don’t think he realized how many people panted after him. Hell, I don’t think I realized how many people panted after him.”

“Yeah, pretty sure he and Jacques are going to make beautiful babies with perfect teeth,” John said with mock seriousness, which earned him a bag of trail mix to the head. “Come on, you can’t blame the man. Jacques was, quite possibly, the most beautiful being in existence. Plus he was younger than you.”

John was hit in the shoulder with a piece of dried beef. “Why don’t we all run away to be with Jacques, everyone’s favourite French heartthrob?” Sherlock drawled.

John shook his head. “Nah, I’d always feel inferior. At least with you I don’t feel completely out of touch with reality.”

Sherlock scoffed as John settled down beside him on their zipped-together sleeping bags. “Does that mean you think I’m…what, plain?”

“You are far from plain,” John sighed. “But you are a dick to everyone but me, so it works out. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.” He glanced over at Sherlock, who was watching him with bright, amused eyes. “What?”

“I don’t deserve you,” Sherlock said with a little shrug, climbing on top of him. For a moment they were an awkward tangle of limbs as Sherlock tried to wrap himself around John completely, like an octopus.

“Well…no…” John said a bit breathlessly into Sherlock’s hair. He sent out a pull of breath to get it out of his mouth. “But that’s what makes it good, you know? None of us really deserve each other, but we choose each other anyway. If we all got what we deserved we’d be fucked.”

Sherlock hummed, not really agreeing with John but not really disagreeing either. He kept humming under his breath, a song that John had never heard before. It sounded old-timey, like something people danced to in black and white films.

John fell asleep with the gentle vibrations of Sherlock’s throat against his skin.

 

They tumbled back into their time easily, much to the surprise of a Danish family of tourists who were taking photographs just outside of the stone circle. John offered them a salute before Sherlock dragged him off towards Craign na Dun.

They didn’t wait to get tickets back to London. “I never want to come here again,” Sherlock said with a note of finality as they sank down on a metal bench at the train station.

“Never?” John asked, arching a brow. He had considered making a stop by the library to see if the history had changed, but he was sure he could find all the same information on Google as they waited. He fished his phone out of his pack and powered it up, ignoring the handful of text messages and numerous emails as he pulled up the browser.

A quick search led him to the history of the war that outlined the death of the majority of Clan MacKenzie. Hamish Watson was not mentioned at all.

A google search of his name didn’t lead very far, save for a brief mention that said he had returned to Scotland with his family in 1752 in the company of his family and a French sailor, with whom his sister had a child. John’s eyes widened a bit as he passed the phone over to Sherlock.

A smug grin grew on his face. “I told you! I told you, I knew he looked…”

“Yes, yes, hush,” John said, snatching the phone back. “We will say nothing of this to anyone, do you hear me? It’s all a bit too…on the nose. And a bit like a commune, if I’m being honest.”

Before Sherlock could argue their train arrived and they boarded the train back to London, leaving the rolling hills of Scotland behind them.

 

It wasn’t until they returned to their flat and began to unpack that John realized Sherlock had not left all of Scotland behind him. There, tucked in the very bottom of John’s pack, was a Watson tartan kilt. John rolled his eyes and considered tossing it briefly, but he decided to put it away in the trunk that held his army uniform. Perhaps it would make its reappearance on their anniversary, if Sherlock was lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This brings this story to a close. I have a few ideas knocking about in my head for follow-ups, but we shall see. Life is going to get a little crazy for me. 
> 
> Thank you, all of you. Your support as been so so important to me.


End file.
